Just We Two
by cklls
Summary: Draco tells the story of his post-war descent into self-destruction, and how a chance encounter with a broken woman changed the trajectory of both of their lives.
1. Prologue

A/N

_Hello, lovelies! This story will not be a pretty one like "Essence of Life" and will likely be even more gritty at points than "Covered." That being said, it's the story of a journey not unlike that of many veterans, and the daunting struggles they face in finding their way back to functioning in the battle after the war._

_This tale is written in first person, past tense, told almost entirely from Draco's perspective. Hermione's appearances will be spotty, at best, for the first few chapters, but she'll return with a vengeance down the line. There will be very little interaction with other main Potter characters, but their "off-page" actions will be significant plot-drivers. I hope you'll find this story compelling and worth your time!_

**Disclaimer: This story is written for my personal enjoyment and that of anyone who may stumble upon it. All canon characters, settings, and circumstances are owned by the venerable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this work, and own only my plot and any original characters who may pop up.**_  
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**Prologue**

I'm the very last bloke that anyone on the planet would call a hero. Truth be told, I've been called a coward more than once, so whatever possessed me to get involved in the situation I'd encountered was well beyond my conscious comprehension. I suppose there could have been some sense of obligation. She had, after all, insisted that Potter not leave me behind to burn in the hell that was the Room of Hidden Things, although that was nearly three years earlier. I also was taught that any man who fails to aid a woman in such dire straits is an absolute shit, and I guess that my acknowledgement of the circumstances meant that I couldn't walk away and keep any shred of the minimal self-respect that I still had. Those are the closest explanations that I can offer and, until something more plausible occurs to me, I'll stick with that.

I thought I was fucked up – and by any and every definition, I truly am – but she made me look like a teetotaler. I thought I'd seen her once before, but I was too high at the time to accurately recognize my own mother; I decided that she had to have been a figment of my imagination. After all, what would the great and vaunted Hermione Granger be doing hanging out with stoners and freaks in the back alleys of Liverpool? The second time, though, the supposed hallucination of my former academic rival turned out to be all too real. Since I wasn't quite as wasted as usual, I was capable of both recognizing her and appreciating the clear and imminent danger in which she was embroiled. So I dived in, quite literally, and pulled her away bodily from the two assailants who had pinned her, with aid of a very ugly switchblade at her throat, against the brick wall of a sorry excuse for a pub. Although I didn't often use magic these days, this seemed to be a situation that called for its subtle application, and the charm that I used to temporarily immobilize the two – and I use the term generously – men was sufficient for me to pull the damsel out of her precarious position.

I'm not certain whether it was because she was so completely blitzed or just an ungrateful bitch, but I didn't even get a muttered "thanks" for rescuing her sorry arse. She just tugged her arm out of my grasp and stumbled off into the night. Regardless of her snub, whether it was of me personally or of help in general, I had the feeling that I hadn't seen the last of Hermione Granger.

End Note

_So, that's the set-up, folks. What do you think? Is your curiosity piqued?_


	2. Chapter 1

I remember vividly that I was still gasping for breath, my chest heaving with a sob now and again, almost an hour after tumbling off the back of Potter's broom once we escaped the Fiendfyre. My… friend was dead and I'd come within seconds and inches of joining him. I'd lost my wand in the process when it rolled under a huge pile of furniture that was quickly consumed by magical flame and being unarmed added exponentially to my list of anxieties. The battle was still raging all around me, but I was paralyzed by fear, grief, and indecision. I huddled in an alcove near what had been the entrance of the Room of Requirement on the seventh floor and wanted nothing more than to have all of it – the noise, the stench, the destruction – just disappear. _I _wanted to disappear. In fact, I'd been methodically planning for just that scenario for months. Now, though, I also had the added burden of being wandless, and that was an enormous complication if I wanted to make a break for it.

The way I saw it, no matter who won, I was screwed. My ability to hide my disgust and disdain for the morons who followed the Dark Lord was absolutely nil, and I'd made no friends – or maybe I should say allies – among the group. Even my relationship with my parents was strained to the breaking point. I'd lost respect for my father for his blind allegiance to a clearly insane megalomaniac and my mother for her meek and silent acquiescence. As much as I'd rejected Voldemort's methods, if not the entire message of pureblood supremacy, I couldn't truthfully claim to have enthusiastically embraced the tenets of those on the opposite side of the conflict. Thus, if Potter and his crew triumphed, I felt certain that I'd find little mercy from them. There was ample evidence of my crimes against Muggle-borns and blood traitors, however halfhearted or coerced they might have been, and I'd be facing, at the very least, an unbearably long sentence in Azkaban. The only mitigating factor that might have saved me from the Kiss was that my reluctance in each of those circumstances was reasonably well-documented. I'd earned more than one Cruciatus curse from the Carrows when I wasn't quick enough to cast one of my own against a wayward classmate, and more than one person could testify to my dismay at being forced to punish people, especially the little ones. Merlin only knows why, but I apparently had a soft spot for young children.

My disillusionment had been growing steadily, fed by the fiasco that had been the Easter holidays at home with the Dark Lord and his minions as our "house guests." It was clear to me who ruled the roost at the manor, and it certainly wasn't my father. He'd been effectively unmanned by that snake-faced freak, culminating in the moment that he'd been stripped of his wand. Might as well have sliced off his nuts. For me, that had been a defining moment, and my already wavering commitment began to fracture in large chunks.

I began to pull away from the horrors the only way I knew how – self-medicating with wine and Firewhisky from what was left of my father's stash. He was toasted all the time. Why shouldn't I take the same small comfort? I found that it momentarily dulled the memories and relieved the creeping sense of guilt that seemed to compound with every curse and hex I cast. I couldn't understand the monsters who so blithely and casually tortured and murdered people who really hadn't committed any crime other than disagreeing with their opposites' viewpoints. That may be reason for an argument, but certainly not for taking another magical life.

I'd never taken kindly to being forced to do anything, but the special hell of being compelled to cast Unforgiveable curses was too much for even an arse like me. When Alecto Carrow Crucioed me for being too slow to cast the same spell on a first-year as punishment for speaking too loudly in the corridors, that was the straw that broke this camel's back. The trip to the infirmary that resulted from a curse that flung me into a wall, breaking two ribs and my left wrist, was when I started consuming pain potions and Dreamless Sleep draughts. I rationalized that it was better than either the nightmares or the chronic insomnia. Nobody warned me about the side-effects and consequences.

At seventeen, regardless of being a legal adult in the wizarding world, I suppose that I was just mature enough to be as dangerous to myself as I could be to others. I was reasonably skilled in subterfuge, and I could sneak about the castle grounds without being caught (as long as I remembered to wear my hooded cloak or cast a glamour to hide my identity – blasted blond hair). I used that skill to squirrel away the provisions that I thought I might need to make a break for it, should that become necessary. Clothing, of both the wizard and Muggle varieties, basic toiletries (at the time, grooming seemed like something I might give a shit about), some easily portable and long-lasting foodstuffs, and money. Lots and lots of money. My parents had always given me a ridiculously generous allowance, and I had access to a vault of my own at Gringotts. I lived like a pauper, or a Weasley, I suppose, spending only what was absolutely necessary for close to six months, and withdrew just under half of what I had in the vault. It's amazing how much cash you can accumulate when you think your life depends on it (turns out, it did). I figured that I'd come into my inheritance sooner or later, if the Ministry didn't confiscate the whole thing for reparations, and if my father disowned me, assuming he survived the war, I still had about twenty thousand Galleons that I'd left behind. There were also two trust funds, not likely to be subject to Ministry appropriation, I chose to believe, that would become available if I were to marry or reach the age of twenty-five, whichever came first. (I thought neither was terribly likely.) It was far more than most people had, so I thought I'd still be ahead of the game, should I be lucky enough to see my eighteenth birthday and beyond. My only concern was about the security of carrying that much gold and such a wad of banknotes, and I solved that by transfiguring the coins to resemble a few large tins of lemon drops – which I abhor and would never try to consume, no matter how famished I might be – and the notes, a great majority of them of the Muggle variety, into seven faux books, all appearing to be in German, a language that I can speak passably but can't read worth a damn. A quick wandless spell would remove the enchantments, allowing me access to my funds as needed. As much as my father claimed to despise them, he regularly found ways to both legally, and… not, do business with people in the Muggle world and profit handsomely in the process. Thus, I'd learned a thing a two about the British pound and how to use it. That would also come to play an invaluable role in my survival, as, I quickly found, it wasn't always possible to find a Wizarding bank that would exchange my Galleons without asking far too many questions.

Since I couldn't easily carry a trunk around with me, especially in consideration of where I was likely to go, I managed to procure one of those Muggle-style duffle bags, to which I added a feather-weight charm. By procure, I mean swipe. Someone, obviously a half-blood, left one just hanging around the castle somewhere. Yeah. I shrunk what I could and added new items as I accumulated them, over the course of several weeks. The bag was hidden in an unused classroom on the third floor of the castle, not far from the corridor we'd repeatedly been warned to avoid at all costs. Although it appeared that no one other than me had been in the abandoned space in decades, I added a couple of security hexes and a Disillusion charm to the bag itself.

As part of my preparation, I watched people, too. There weren't very many half-bloods left in the school during my seventh year, but there were enough for me to observe what they wore during their casual time. I learned that the trousers of varying shades of blue worn by both males and females were called "jeans." They seemed to be of a very durable fabric, although not indestructible; I'd seen several pair with rips in the knees. I was able to determine with a fair degree of certainty that this was considered a "fashion statement," often achieved with the aid of a slicing hex. Getting a couple of pair was not an easy task, but I got creative. I ordered a house-elf to bring me one from the laundry, and I duplicated it, then adjusted the fit until it was comfortable. Then I added a charm to make the adjustments permanent and conjured three more copies. Clever, if I do say so myself. The original pair was returned to its owner, no one the wiser for my temporary misappropriation.

I had my own stock of jumpers, shirts, undergarments, and a few pair of trousers in addition to the jeans. While a pair of black leather oxfords was easy to shrink and add to the bag, I had the feeling that I probably would be wearing my dragon-hide boots more frequently. The rubber-soled track shoes that many students wore were a little harder to come by, but I eventually "found" a pair abandoned in the Hufflepuff Quidditch team's locker room. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. I cleaned them up with at least a dozen Scourgify spells and a sanitizing charm, and got them to fit with a stretching charm, which I also made permanent. Yes, I have big feet. No, I have nothing more to say about that.

Finally, I laid in a decent stock of ready-made potions and my well-stocked portable ingredient kit, complete with collapsible cauldron. Merlin knew, there'd likely be numerous occasions when I'd have need of healing or relief of some sort. In short, I'd done everything that I could think of to prepare myself to be on my own for an extended period of time, potentially a year or more.

I'd ultimately, in those last few hours, concluded that I didn't want to be part of a world where the Dark Lord and his cohorts ruled. It would be a very ugly place, if what I'd seen in my family's home were any indication. And I didn't think that I could – meaning be _allowed_ to – live in a world where the Dark Lord had been vanquished; I'd pay a very heavy price for my apparent support, no matter how tepid it had been, and I couldn't face the prospect of the Kiss or years behind bars in Azkaban. With all of those factors in mind, I felt that my only viable option was to leave.

So, when there was a lull in the action, followed by the Dark Lord's gleeful announcement that Potter was dead, I crawled out of my hiding spot and picked my way through the rubble with the intention to retrieve my duffle bag. My first mission, though, was to see if I could find a wand whose owner no longer needed it. Along the way, I encountered more bodies – each of them as wandless as I was - than I could count, until I came upon the pale, bloody corpse of that blonde Gryffindor who used to giggle endlessly over one boy or another. Her throat had been ripped out, I assumed by a werewolf; this was very likely the work of Fenrir Greyback, who scared the crap out of me, mostly because he'd spent more hours sniffing around me than I cared to recall. I found her wand, still clutched in her hand, and tugged it from her stiffening fingers, thanking her silently and pausing only long enough to empty my stomach of the meager excuse for lunch I'd had many hours earlier. New wand in hand, I threw a quick Lumos to see if it would effectively channel my magic. It wasn't as responsive as my own (Merlin only knew for certain where _that_ was, although I was as confident as I could be that Potter still had it, even after the fiasco on the seventh floor) but it was not any worse than my mother's which I'd lost to the flames a couple of hours earlier. I thought I'd be able to make do, and I was a bit surprised to note that, although it was made of a different wood and its core was anybody's guess, it resembled my own wand in that it was very plain, unadorned and straight.

It had taken longer than I expected to get to my hidden stash, and the wails of anguish I'd heard throughout the castle grated on my every last nerve. I guessed that as many of them were over the loss of their would-be savior as they were of the wounded crying out in pain. If the Dark Lord really had prevailed, he'd be sending his minions through the castle to finish off those who'd opposed him. Those deaths were not likely to be quick or merciful, and I didn't want to be caught up among them. My failure to fight would be considered as much a defection as if I'd stood at Potter's side.

As I made my way down crumbling staircases and along collapsing corridors, something shifted in the nature of the cries below me. By the time I reached the fourth floor, I could hear shouts of joy, and they were definitely from young voices. I was finally close enough to get the gist; Potter, apparently, had not been slain as the Dark Lord had claimed. The battle would begin anew, and that was all the motivation I needed to find an extra burst of energy and speed to make my way one more floor downward. Along my trek, I'd made no concerted effort to determine the fate of either of my parents, and I certainly wasn't going to waste my time trying to find them at this critical point in my escape. It would be many, many months before I learned what role they'd played in the Battle of Hogwarts. Since I believed that they'd shown only the barest minimum of concern for my welfare, I wasn't feeling particularly charitable in my consideration of them in this pivotal moment. Saving my own skin was the only thing on my mind.

Other than the dead and incapacitated wounded, I saw no one in the badly damaged castle. It seemed that all of the action had shifted outside to the courtyard. Although the castle wasn't silent by any stretch of the imagination, it was quieter than I expected, as though there wasn't much happening in the way of wand-to-wand combat. I'd wager half the money in my duffle that a truly final confrontation between Potter and Voldemort was holding everyone's attention. The outcome would determine, to a great degree, what, if any, additional skirmishes would follow. Knowing Death Eaters as I do, any who survived would run if their leader was vanquished. If the beady-eyed bastard triumphed, Dumbledore's loyalists would fight to the last wizard standing. If I hadn't managed to escape before the battle reached its bitter end, the sounds drifting up into the wounded castle from the courtyard would have given me sufficient clues that I could reach a reasonable conclusion about the outcome.

My goal at the time, however, was to get out before a climax was reached. Sticking around served no purpose that I could imagine. It was bordering on miraculous, if one believed in such things, that I hadn't encountered anyone able-bodied enough to question me, never mind stop me, and I promised my undying allegiance to whatever imaginary deity might allow my luck to hold out for just five more minutes, the time I estimated I'd need to climb over the smoking heaps of rubble that remained between me and my goal.

As the piles grew larger and the smoke thicker on the lower floors, I belatedly began to worry between coughing fits over whether the abandoned classroom had actually escaped damage. Since it was in a rather out-of-the-way location, I chose to be optimistic. As I rounded the corner that led to the corridor in which the room was located, my heart pounding in my chest and in my ears, I found that my very worst fears had been averted, but that didn't mean that there were no obstacles in my path. From my vantage point, it seemed that the classroom was relatively unscathed, but someone or something had blown a very large hole in the floor, leaving a gaping chasm between me and my survival kit.

I swallowed a groan of frustration and looked around for something that I could use to craft a makeshift bridge. While I had a wand, my broom was stuffed into the duffle bag and couldn't be Accioed through solid stone and wood, and I wasn't close enough for an Alohamora to work on the door, especially with a wand that didn't yet "know" me. That had been a major miscalculation on my part; I should have shrunk my new Firebolt and kept it in my pocket. It was equally impossible to levitate myself over the hole. One could only levitate another person or an object. If I could find some boards, I could jury-rig something to lay across the hole, but I didn't see anything nearby. Since the floor had collapsed down into the corridor below, there weren't even many stones around that I could transfigure or enlarge, and I was concerned that if I summoned the rubble back up, someone would notice and come to investigate. A Reparo spell would not be even close to adequate for the massive damage, either. There was also no way my meager athleticism, especially with all the weight I had lost due to stress in the last several months, would allow me the skill or strength to make a leap over the breach; it was easily fifteen feet across and the most I'd ever managed in the athletic training we'd done for Quidditch was a measly six and a half, barely more than a third of what would be required to make it to the other side.

I've heard the saying that necessity, or desperation in this case, is the mother of invention, and I suppose this was about as desperate as I'd ever felt. I was so close to my goal, I could taste it, but there was no obvious way for me to get where I needed to go. I couldn't waste the time to find another corridor that accessed this area, and I honestly didn't think there was one. I had no choice but to get incredibly creative and immensely lucky. Since fortune had apparently been in my favor for the last forty minutes, I decided to trust that it - and my ingenuity - wouldn't desert me in that urgent moment. After considering and rejecting a dozen possible solutions, I settled on casting the strongest sticking charm I could muster on both of my hands, my knees, my shins, and the inside of my forearms, and crawled, spider-like, along the vertical wall, holding my breath for the three full minutes that it took for me to reach the relative safety of the opposite side of the hole. I peeled myself off the wall slowly, crumbled to the floor, cancelled the charms, and then finally made my way to the door. It was scorched, but otherwise undamaged, and I removed the hexes I'd placed on it before releasing the locks. I tumbled into the room, shutting the door behind me as quickly and quietly as I could. I was gasping for air so hard by that point that I had no choice but to rest for a few moments so that my heart rate and breathing could return to some semblance of normal. I knew, though, that I couldn't afford to waste any more time, so I mustered whatever fortitude I had left and retrieved the bag, which was, thank Merlin, unmolested in the still-dusty cupboard in which I'd stowed it. I removed a lightweight hooded cloak and my broom, slung the bag over my shoulder, and made my way back to the corridor, flying over the chasm in the floor and out of the first window I could find, casting a Bombarda charm to break the glass. That was to be the last time I would see Hogwarts for a very, very long time.


	3. Chapter 2

Although my grades in that last year at Hogwarts may not have reflected it, I was a very capable student. I wasn't in the very top spot, which perpetually had Granger's name on it until she disappeared after the fiasco in the Astronomy Tower, but I wasn't too far down the list up through the middle of our sixth year, third or fourth at worst. I was somewhere in the center of the spectrum of those who had to study for every last grade point and those who were naturally gifted, never needing to crack a book and still earning straight Os.

As such, I understood the value of research and study. Whenever I could steal an hour or two away, I hid out in the Restricted Section, perusing the few Muggle texts that hadn't been purged from the library for clues about somewhere I could go to blend into the proverbial woodwork. London was out; there were far too many wizards running around the city and I'd have been easily recognized, even if I managed to disguise the beacon on the top of my head. My language skills were decent, not sufficient for me to operate comfortably in Germany, Spain, or Italy, but I might have been able to manage in France. I'd originally considered trying to inconspicuously hide at one of the many properties that my family owned, until I realized that there was no way to accomplish that without my father learning of my presence, and I was as eager to separate from him as his Death Eater cronies. In any event, the property just east of Lyon had been usurped by my Aunt Bella's brother-in-law as a base of operations for expansion of the "mission" if the Dark Lord proved successful in England, Merlin help us all. I had no desire to risk a run-in with dear old Rabastan, who'd undoubtedly Avada me on sight.

All of that added up to the requirement that I disappear into a good-sized city, probably somewhere in Great Britain, that my parents would be unlikely to visit and equally unlikely to consider as a place that I'd choose for my escape. I was just as happy that they consider me dead. Merlin knew, my survival was not assured by any means.

Through my research, I narrowed my options to Manchester and Liverpool in England, which were only about twenty miles apart, and Glasgow, if I could stomach the idea of remaining in Scotland. I decided that I'd check each of them out once I'd left the castle, then make my choice about where to stay based on whatever factors struck me in the moment. This was the least cohesive part of my plot.

So, on the night of my escape, I soared into the inky sky as quickly as I was able away from the smoldering castle, glancing back only once to be certain that I wasn't followed. I had to make a decision where I'd be making my first stop, and logic might have dictated that I get to the closest potential safe haven. Something in my gut, however, pushed me on far past Glasgow, south and west. I'm not even sure how many hours I spent in the air, although I knew that it was long past midnight, but at about the point that my arms, legs, and arse were long past numb and approaching paralysis, I found myself descending into Liverpool, its identity obvious from its location on the east side of the Mersey and, of course, the Irish Sea. If I couldn't get lost in a city of close to a half-million people, I couldn't get lost anywhere.

As I stumbled off my broom into a dark alley (cliché, I know, but where else would I go, right?), I realized that, although my heart had finally calmed to a slightly more normal rate and my breathing was more regular than coughs followed by gasps, my entire body was shaking like a newborn kitten. I quickly shrunk my broom and stashed it inside my duffle and, when my legs could no longer support my weight, leaned my back against a wall, sinking inexorably toward the ground. I remember choking back a sob of something – whether relief or anxiety or grief, I couldn't accurately tell you to this day – and reached inside the interior pocket of my cloak for the silver flask of Firewhisky I'd placed there. Just to steady my nerves for a moment, I told myself. One generous swig led to five, and before I knew it, I was well on my way to utterly pissed. When I finally roused from my drunken stupor, the sun was already fairly high in the sky. Taking in my surroundings with bleary, unquestionably bloodshot eyes, if the burning was any indication, I reasoned that I'd probably only been left undisturbed because I was well tucked in between two rather massive – and now that they were warmed by the sun – exceptionally malodorous garbage receptacles. Such was my ignominious beginning as a resident of the venerable port of Liverpool.

During my research, I'd learned that there wasn't an organized wizarding community within about fifty miles of the primarily working-class city, and I was greatly relieved that was the case. It was also the anticipation of which that had caused me to stock up as much as I could on the Muggle currency that I'd charmed into book form. The nearest exchange branch of Gringotts – other than the one in London – was about seventy miles due north, heading back toward Scotland. That was a good couple of hours by broom, probably a bit less in a Muggle conveyance, but I didn't have ready access to, or knowledge of, how to use those modes of transportation. I resolved on that first day to locate a library where I might be able to figure out what I could make work for me, should such a trip become necessary.

Another of my imperatives was to remain incognito. I wasn't yet sure of what I could accomplish with the wand I'd appropriated from the deceased Gryffindor girl, but I had the strong suspicion that it would be rather adept with Glamours. Although a mirror is generally helpful in such situations, there was none available, so I made do with the reflection from a dirty pane of glass, part of a window that revealed a storeroom of sorts on its opposite side. I darkened the color of my hair several shades so that it was a sandy hue, adding a bit of waviness to my usual straight-as-a-pin texture, made my eyes blue rather than their distinctive grey, squared my jaw a bit, and deepened my skin tone so that I wasn't quite so ghostly. Someone who knew me very well might look twice at me, but to the casual observer, I was reasonably confident that I wasn't a dead ringer for Draco Malfoy any longer. I'd learned during previous attempts at disguise that more subtle changes lasted significantly longer than more dramatic ones, and I hoped that the alterations in my appearance would be sufficient. I also noted that the spells were cast with great ease, probably more efficiently than what I might have achieved with my own hawthorn wand. I could only hope to be so lucky in its future usage.

I shrugged out of my cloak and pulled on a zip-up fleece jacket – another "gift" from a half-blood who'd carelessly left it on the back of a chair in a study room. Not yet wanting to experiment with the characteristics of my still unfamiliar wand, I resisted the urge to shrink it, stowing it in my duffle instead. I recall being concerned that it wouldn't be immediately at hand, but it wasn't all that far out of reach should I urgently need it. I hoped that I could wait until I was in a more secure and private location to attempt any alterations that would allow me to carry it, albeit disguised, in plain sight.

I left the alley then, intent to find somewhere that I could rest for a couple of days, get my bearings, and figure out what to do for the next several weeks. I slung my duffle over my shoulder and walked the streets for a couple of hours in search of a small inn or hotel, but found nothing of the sort in the neighborhood in which I'd landed, so close to the docks and piers, if the stench in the air provided any clue. I quickly realized that my upbringing and life experience were in dramatic conflict with my current surroundings. My research had made it clear that Liverpool was, much like any large city, a place full of contrasts and contradictions. For every gentrified, cultured, and elegant neighborhood, there was another that made the deepest recesses of Knockturn Alley seem inviting. I'd undoubtedly landed in one of the lesser areas, but that was, in the long run, probably a better choice if I wanted to remain undiscovered and anonymous, not to mention being easier on my consumption of funds. I'd calculated that, if I was relatively frugal, I could make my stash stretch out for three or four years. Such were the perks of having come from an obscenely wealthy family – I had money to spare. Access to my vaults was another story, though. If I lived as I was accustomed to, I'd barely make six months. As darkness began to fall, I resigned myself to finding something less gentile than I'd have accepted in any other circumstances. The alternative was another night in an alley, and that was out of the question. Another thirty minutes of wandering brought me to what I'd guess one would describe as a rooming house. At least, that's how it was identified by the sign hanging lopsidedly from a pole over the door. A smaller sign propped in the window proclaimed that there were rooms to let, so it seemed to be something that deserved at least a moment of consideration.

I pushed open the door, startling briefly when a bell rang overhead. I can't deny that I was as skittish as an alley cat, seeing the possibility of attack in every dark shadow. Behind a long wooden desk, an obese elderly man was sitting on a rickety three-legged stool; how it hadn't collapsed under his massive weight was a mystery for the ages. He looked up as I approached, grunting something that was either a greeting or a warning.

I cleared my throat and said, "I see you have rooms available. How much for a week?"

He looked me up and down, appraising my worth – as a paying customer or a human being, I couldn't have said, but I certainly felt the weight of his assessment. His red-rimmed, watery eyes finally left me as he reached for a tattered and stained sheet of paper, sliding it across the surface of the desk for my inspection. It was a price list, detailing the options available – single or double rooms with private baths or efficiency kitchens, for example – and the daily, weekly, and monthly fee associated with each. Since I knew nothing about cooking, a kitchen would be fairly useless to me; I'd eat out, use up the food I'd filched from Hogwarts, or make cold sandwiches until I figured out a better plan. The private bath was an attractive option. Although I was accustomed to sharing the lavatory facilities with a handful of other young men at Hogwarts, they were people I'd known all my life. The prospect of sharing a bath or loo with strangers was, at the moment, unthinkable. The option added about twenty percent to the cost of the room, but I thought it was worth the extra expense.

"I'll take a single room with a private bath, please. For one week," I added. I figured there would be an option to extend my stay should it become necessary, and I wanted to get more familiar with the location before making any longer-term commitment.

He grunted again, pointing to the price on the list, and I fished the full payment out of my pocket, trying my best to hide the fairly large wad of banknotes I carried. I remember thinking that I should have converted more of the cash into my faux books and resolved to do that once I was settled into my new temporary home. The attendant grunted yet again as he counted the money to verify that I'd not shorted him and made an entry in a ledger, presumably noting which room had been claimed and for how long. Although I thought it somewhat odd that he never asked my name, I wasn't displeased to remain anonymous. I supposed that the time would come soon enough that I would need to manufacture some kind of identity for myself. I wondered briefly if he had verbal capability to even accomplish such a question until he finally handed me a room key, rasping out, "Third floor. Second door on the left. No overnight guests without paying extra, keep the noise down, and no cooking or open flame in that room."

I curtly nodded my acknowledgement to the corpulent man and made my way to the staircase at the far end of the lobby, hitching my bag higher on my shoulder. I recall the strong odors of sweat, tobacco smoke and something that I hoped was an ammonia-based cleaning solvent but was more likely urine as I ascended the three flights of steps. This was probably the dingiest place I'd ever visited, and that included nearly every spot I'd had occasion to frequent in Knockturn Alley. To my mind, at least, there was a difference between something old and dark and something desperately ill-kept. My new "home" was clearly the latter.

Following the desk attendant's terse directions, I located the room, number 14C, that I'd occupy until I found something… else. I fitted the key into the lock, turned it and opened the door, although I probably could have given it an unenthusiastic, desultory push and achieved the same result. I'd be using a Colloportus charm, for certain. I could tell immediately that the previous occupant – or several of them – had been a smoker. The room reeked of it. I had more than my share of vices, but smoking cigarettes and cigars – whether Muggle or magical – was not among them. I have always abhorred the stench of tobacco. My first task once I closed the door behind me was to retrieve my wand from my duffle and cast two or three charms to freshen the stale, stinking air. When I finally felt I could breathe freely again, I dropped my bag on the bed and stripped out of the fleece jacket.

Only then did I look around to fully absorb the contents and character of the room. The space was about a third of the size of my room at the manor. I'd already stopped thinking of that horrifying place as "home." A full-sized bed covered by a faded orange comforter was the room's most prominent object. I despise the color orange, but I didn't want to use more magic than was strictly necessary, so I decided to tolerate the putrid shade. The two pillows resting against the cracked faux-leather headboard looked thin and pathetic, but I supposed they'd be endurable if I stacked them together and folded them in half. I know that I'd lived my life to that point as a spoiled-rotten git, but rarely had I had to abide such abysmal conditions, and this was a shocking introduction into the way those less fortunate than I had to live. My revulsion, however, was to be short-lived as other motivations, circumstances, and reactions became more dominant in my life. The rest of my story, however, was still to unfold.

The rest of the room was no better than the bed, which had creaked loudly even against the relatively modest weight of my charmed duffle. I remember thinking that if there came a point when I thought to, uh, entertain a guest, I'd have no choice but to cast a silencing charm, lest we wake the entire block. I was not averse to using Silencing charms, either, as long as I could do it wandlessly or surreptitiously. Then again, the desk attendant had warned against having overnight guests. I guess the "overnight" part was what I chose to heed, had it become necessary. That would have been fine with me anyway. I'd never been one to cuddle. There was a small dresser against one wall, its drawers missing several of the pulls and four of the six hanging askew in one way or another. Against the wall directly opposite the door was an upholstered armchair, the color barely discernable as a washed-out lime green in the dim lighting. It occurred to me that I needed to use one of the lamps to provide some level of illumination, and I searched my memory for something from my Muggle Studies class to give me a clue about how to accomplish that. When I examined the lamp on the small rectangular table beside the chair, I found the pull chain that would turn on the bulb. Tugging on it sharply, I was rewarded with enough light to wish that the darned thing hadn't worked after all. Now, every water stain, cobweb, tear, and blemish were on full display.

Glancing around the room, I noted two doors in addition to the one leading to the hallway. I found that one was a very small closet, no more than three feet wide and barely two feet deep, and the other led to the private bath that had been such a selling point in my decision not even ten minutes earlier. While it was probably better than the communal bath at the end of the hallway, it was no match for even the fairly nasty lavatory that I'd shared with Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, and Zabini. That had been palatial and pristine in comparison to this. There was a white porcelain commode, but "white" was a relative term in this case. It appeared to have been cleaned at some point in the last decade, so I was marginally grateful for that small mercy. A small porcelain sink hung against the wall, its faucet dripping unceasingly and leaving a circle of rust in the bottom of the basin. A metal shelf, about a foot and a half wide and five inches deep, that hung above the sink would have to suffice for organizing toiletries. Above that, an oval mirror hung, its silvering fading and crackled in several spots.

There was no tub, and that was probably a good thing. I don't know that I could have ever brought myself to rest my naked body against its surface if there had been such a convenience. Instead, there was a three-foot-square enclosed shower stall, one's privacy protected by a peach-colored curtain that drew along the rail at the top. Threadbare, greying towels and hand linens were folded on an open metal rack mounted on the wall to the right of the shower.

Sighing at the depressing state of my accommodations, I turned toward the john and unzipped my fly to relieve myself. Once I was done, I discovered that the hot water supply was basically nonexistent. I could only hope that allowing it to run longer in the morning would produce enough for a reasonably satisfying shower. At least there was a small wrapped cake of hand soap. I'd made note of the need to dig out my own toiletries before retiring for the night. Although I surely needed it, I just didn't have the energy that night for a shower, so I mustered as much ambition as I could and unpacked a few necessities.

Since I was about ten years old, I've preferred to sleep au naturel, but the dubious cleanliness of the bed linens had made me rethink my usual practice and I decided that a tee shirt and boxers would be prudent. Looking back now, I recall that precaution as quaint and naive. As I retrieved the pertinent items from my bag, I came upon the substantial package of food items that I'd hoarded. It dawned on me that I hadn't eaten anything, not a single bite, in well better than twenty-four hours. No wonder I was feeling a bit lightheaded and sluggish. At least this time, I couldn't blame it entirely on excessive alcohol consumption. I found some biscuits and a small wedge of Cheddar that I'd swiped from the last dinner served in the Great Hall prior to the commencement of hostilities on the Hogwarts grounds. That, along with a crisp green apple, was my dinner. I hadn't really thought about bringing any beverages with me other than of the intoxicating sort, and the rather tasteless biscuits had left my throat parched. My choices to quench my thirst were water from the tap – not bloody likely – or the Firewhisky in the flask that had been calling to me for an hour or two. In the end, I guess there had been no contest. After taking less than a minute to strip out of my clothes and donning the sleepwear to which I'd conceded, I stretched out on the bed and drank. While I don't remember much else about that night, I know that I wept over any number of the losses that I'd suffered, wallowing in my misery until I succumbed to either exhaustion or inebriation. I know that when I woke up the next morning, my eyes were red and swollen, my mouth was dry as cotton wool, my head was pounding, and my flask of Firewhisky was bone dry.


	4. Chapter 3

Although I know I slept that first night in Liverpool, it wasn't particularly healing or restful, if my physical condition and sour mood the next morning were any indication. Maybe I'd lost consciousness, although the distinction was hardly pertinent. My head was pounding, and as soon as I relieved my full bladder, I dug into my stock of potions for a hangover remedy. I had brewed what I thought was a sufficient supply about a month earlier, but it seemed that I'd been availing myself of the concoction with greater regularity than I thought; I had only four of fifteen vials left. That would be a priority once I made myself settled enough to replenish my stores.

Fortunately, while not instantaneous, the relief had been swift, and I stripped off my improvised sleepwear to shower. Although I had little energy or motivation, it had been almost two full days since I'd been able to bathe, and one of those bad been spent, quite literally, on the edges of a pitched battle. While I wasn't yet to the point of offending myself, it was entirely possible that I'd become "nose-blind" – so accustomed to my own stink that I didn't recognize it. I couldn't have vouched for my effect on others. The water sputtered from the showerhead as I turned on the tap, and a temperature check with my hand a few moments later revealed the water to be, thankfully, warmer than I'd expected. I propped my bottle of shampoo on the rust-mottled soap shelf and used my favorite bergamot soap, lathering generously over my body.

While the blind oblivion of alcohol intoxication wasn't immediately available to me in the shower, I wasn't fussy or hesitant about finding my highs wherever I could get them. If not chemically induced, a physical rush was a perfectly good alternative. Since I was already wet and slippery, there was no impediment – or compunction – to getting myself off. I liked to start slow, relishing the sensation of the build-up, testing my stamina to see how long I could extend my pleasure before finally letting go. The release was always more explosive, I thought, when the trek to the end was more deliberate. Although at that point I didn't have an immense amount of experience bedding witches, I certainly wasn't a virgin. The few ladies I'd been with seemed to appreciate the self-control I'd developed through my solo efforts.

Like most post-adolescent blokes, I knew every ridge and vein of my cock exceedingly well. I knew that a firm squeeze with my thumb and index finger around the base would slow me down and a rub against that spot just beneath my head would make my knees weak. When I finally wanted to come, a fast, firm stroke enclosing the tip would send me over. Fondling my bollocks at the same time would make me see stars. If a partner were the one handling me, it was all the better. That's the kind of oblivion I sought; my only frustration was that the bliss didn't last for very long. I found solutions to that along the way, but that story's down the road a bit.

I had braced my hands against the wall while regaining my senses, allowing the water to sluice over me until my vision cleared and I was again breathing normally. Somewhere along the way, the hot water had run out and I was standing in a spray of icicles. I shivered and turned off the tap, then reached out through the curtain to grab a towel. They were so small and threadbare that I needed two in order to get dry. I hung them over the rod for use on the following morning, as I was relatively certain there would not be daily linen service. I suppose I could have used a spell in a pinch, but I was trying to be careful about how much magic I used. Having not spent a lot of time around Muggles, I had no idea whether they'd feel something different in the air, even if they hadn't directly witnessed my magical activity. That was not the kind of attention I cared to attract. Blending into the woodwork was closer to my intention.

On the previous evening, I hadn't had the energy to fully unpack and inventory what I'd managed to stow in my duffle, so after pulling on a clean pair of boxers, I sat cross-legged on the bed and emptied the bag, mentally cataloging as I went along. When I reached the bottom, I concluded that I'd done a reasonably decent job of stocking up for most of my needs over the next several weeks. My privileged upbringing, though, revealed a few things that I hadn't fully considered, and as I thought more deeply about the course to which I'd committed myself, some gaping holes in the fabric of my plan were exposed.

I had enough clothing to last a little over two weeks without repeating a garment, other than the jeans which I'd learned could be worn multiple times without laundering. Without house-elves to clean my clothes, I hadn't really considered the methodology to take care of my washing. I knew enough to realize that constant Scourgifying damaged and degraded fabrics; after five or six applications of that spell, my clothing would start to fall apart. I wasn't anxious to spend more than I needed to on constantly replacing my wardrobe, such as it was. I was sure that I'd need the money for other priorities. I supposed that I could make use of duplication spells, but I also didn't want to cart around more than I absolutely must. I concluded that the most likely solution was to discover what Muggles did to clean their soiled clothing. I was intelligent and observant; I was sure I could figure it out.

The next issue was food. Most of what I had taken from Hogwarts was what we'd eat for snacks, things like savory and sweet biscuits, whole fruit, and the like. Our late Headmaster had been a lover of all things Muggle – he was particularly notorious for his passion for Muggle sweets – and had introduced peanut butter into the menu long years before our class of students arrived at Hogwarts. As such, it had become something of a staple in the wizarding world. I'd managed to grab a half dozen jars in preparation for my departure. I must confess, the stuff was addictive, particularly the crunchy variety. Several pots of various fruit preserves paired with that and the biscuits made rather tasty combinations. They weren't, however, sufficient for real sustenance.

I'd also managed to swipe some cheese and cold meats, but stasis and cooling charms wouldn't keep them from spoiling forever. They'd be safe to eat for a couple of weeks, at best, if the supply didn't run out before then. Muffins, scones, and other breads would be safe for a little longer, but the quantity I'd gathered was not unlimited. I'd learned through trial and error that one could not shrink some of those pastries and expect them to be edible when the attempted was made to return them to their original state. Thus, I'd not taken more than a dozen items, carefully wrapped and warded against crushing.

As I'd realized the previous night, the only beverages that I'd thought to take with me were of the intoxicating variety, and although I'd emptied my flask, I had a least five unbreakable bottles of various spirits stuffed between my other belongings. While my mood would be well-served by the alcohol, I figured that it probably wasn't the best choice for breakfast. On that day, anyway.

Vegetables were also conspicuously absent. It wasn't topmost of my concerns, but I'd grown up in a household in which full formal meals were served every day. It was something else I'd need to consider, but I didn't think it was a life-altering issue at the moment.

Gamp's Law aside, the major complication I faced here was that, try as I might, my new wand was not cooperating in duplicating food, which should have made my situation less expensive, if not providing greater choices. The texture, size, taste, and aromas were all out of whack and fundamentally inedible, no matter what I attempted to replicate.

Since I'd rented a room without kitchen facilities, there wasn't a lot of cooking that I could do, even if I knew how. My culinary skills were limited to assembling sandwiches and reheating cooked items that had been chilled. I could boil water for tea, if I had thought to bring any tea with me. Finding a market to purchase a tin or two was added to my list of things I needed to do. My collapsible cauldron could potentially be used for heating something in addition to its main function in brewing potions; it would probably be safe to cook in a vessel that had contained ingredients that were used in consumable brews, as the vast majority were. It would just need to be thoroughly cleaned between concoctions, something that had been drilled into habit from the very first day of Elementary Potions Practices in first year.

There were clearly a number of problems that needed solutions, but my brain was still too distracted and preoccupied to come to any definitive conclusions. My thoughts kept drifting back to the battle that had still been raging when I'd made my escape. I wondered over the fates of my classmates and, as angry as I was at them, my parents. Whether Potter and his crew or the Dark Lord had prevailed was also a burning question. I had no idea how or when I'd get any answers, and I certainly wasn't willing to risk exposure by venturing into a wizarding community. I resolved to put the question out of my mind and live whatever life I could craft for myself. For now, there was no debate about going back to the wizarding world. I'd cast my fortune in another direction, for better or worse.

My subconscious had different ideas, though, and when boredom and exhaustion combined to send me into a fitful nap – at mid-morning – my dreams were haunted by the faces and events that I'd seen in my last hours in the castle. My dreams turned to nightmares where Potter, Weasley, and Granger had abandoned me to the fire rather than taking Goyle and me out with them. A particularly troubling version had Granger cackling over her shoulder from her perch on the broom as she watched me succumb. That one awakened me with my own screams. I was shaking like a leaf as I sat up in bed, still surrounded by the items I'd unpacked. To calm my nerves, I cracked open one of my bottles of Firewhisky, not bothering with the civility of a glass, and drank deeply. Having only eaten a scone all day, my buzz came quickly. I welcomed it heartily, along with the temporary amnesia that it afforded me.

I stumbled around the room for a bit, haphazardly putting away some of my belongings in the dresser and closet, and finally dressing in something more than pants at midafternoon. Since my stomach was grumbling, I decided that I should eat something, and I managed to pull together a sandwich of roast beef and some cheddar that I'd sliced off the wedge I'd stolen. Draco Malfoy, petty thief. I suppose that's better than having murder on my conscience, although I do recall having rationalized that the tuition and board my parents had paid entitled me to some of the food that I'd failed to eat in my weeks of depression and paranoia. I had at least had the foresight to also "procure" a couple of plates and some basic utensils. Apparently, I'd had a couple of flashes of competence in my desperation.

I'd sobered up a bit at that point and was going stir-crazy, so I thought for a few minutes about what I would need to do in order to safely explore my temporary neighborhood. Paramount in my mind was renewing the Glamour charms that certainly would have worn off by now, and I used the bathroom mirror to ensure, as best I could, that I cast them in the same way I had on the previous evening. I also didn't want to venture out into unfamiliar territory unarmed, but I'd not yet experimented with methods for disguising my new wand. I concluded that the best short-term solution was to place a Disillusionment charm on it. I'd still be able to feel the thing in my pocket, but no one would be able to see it. Until I had a better handle on its capabilities and responsiveness to me, I didn't want to make any actual alterations such as shrinking or minimally transfiguring it. Since I had, literally, thousands of British pounds and close to their equivalent in Galleons among my belongings, I didn't feel comfortable leaving my room unprotected, so I cast another Disillusionment charm over any items that could have seemed to have the slightest value and set a strong locking spell along with a powerful deterrent hex or two on the room's only door. Satisfied that my stash was as safe as it could be under the circumstances, I set out in the early evening light to explore, carrying only about £50 with me, should I need to make a purchase or decide to have dinner at a local establishment.

The first thing I noted as I entered the lobby from the stairwell was that the same portly attendant sat behind the reception desk. He looked up as he heard my footsteps and grunted. This seemed to be his favored method of communication. Since he failed to make eye contact, I chose not to interpret his vocalization as a direct greeting and simply walked past. My mother would have thought me unspeakably rude to not offer some acknowledgement, even to such a low-status proprietor, but since she wasn't here to rebuke me – and at the time I still had no idea whether she'd even survived the final battle – I ignored my breach of etiquette in favor of a hasty departure from the premises.

When I was finally outside, I found that the evening air was warmer than I'd expected, and I unzipped the lightweight fleece jacket I'd worn. There weren't very many pedestrians on the street, but I noted a steady stream of people in and out of various businesses along the three or four blocks that I'd walked. Periodically, enticing aromas would waft from an open door, or raucous laughter would emanate as patrons interacted with their friends. There was something inviting about the sound until it struck me that it might be years before I'd again hear such a joyous noise from anyone I know, if ever, and that added to my already morose mood. Thinking that I could spare a few quid for a pint or two to drown my sorrows and possibly a hot meal – the first I'd had in three, maybe four days – I entered the next pub on my path.

I was very near the docks and the odor of the river permeated the air. It was highly questionable that I'd find anything more pleasant inside the pub, the name of which I'd failed to note. My theory was proved accurate as I crossed the threshold and was assailed by a cloud of rancid tobacco smoke and the unmistakable scent of deep-fried anything. I coughed once in reflex, but continued farther into the moderately crowded eatery, trying not to breathe too deeply. A quick glance confirmed that most of the small two- or four-person tables were occupied, but there were a couple of open seats at the bar. I took the one closest to the exit and asked the barkeep for a pint of whatever stout he had on tap when he approached me. As he delivered my brew, he asked if I wanted a menu. I nodded in response and he reached under the bar to retrieve a single sheet of paper, printed on both sides with their offerings.

"We've also got lamb cottage pie as a special for tonight, mate," he suggested.

Since it's really difficult to fuck up a cottage pie, I figured that wouldn't be the worst choice I could make. "That'll do," I answered him, pushing the sheet of paper back toward him, having never actually read it.

He nodded and turned to yell into the kitchen through the swinging door at the far end of the room. "Another special, Marcus," he instructed, then turned back to the conversation he'd been having with other patrons, whom I presumed to be regulars from the area. It was fine by me; I wasn't eager to engage in small talk, at least until my brain was significantly fuzzier. By the time my order was delivered, I'd polished off my stout and silently asked for another by raising the glass to catch the barkeep's attention. He set a new glass before me, grabbing the empty one and dropping it into a bin for washing. He eyed me with as much curiosity as suspicion and asked, "You new around here?"

_Great_, I thought, _just what I need_. I took a cue from my rooming house attendant and grunted a reply that could have been interpreted as anything. Unfortunately, that was not enough to deter him.

"From one of the merchant ships?" he conjectured.

I smirked. A scrawny guy like me working on a ship? Yeah, real likely. I shrugged, allowing him to reach whatever conclusion he wished.

He seemed to find that amusing and tried again. "Quiet one, aren't you? Well, I'll leave you to your supper. Let me know if you need anything." He turned away then, with a shrug of his own, and I went back to my cottage pie. It was either the most incredible thing I'd ever eaten or I was the hungriest I'd ever been. It didn't take me long to polish off the entire plate, mopping up the last of the gravy with a piece of crusty bread that had been served alongside. By that time, I'd finished my second stout and signaled my desire for another. It was my goal that the pleasant buzz turn into another round of oblivion. The barkeep raised an eyebrow at the pace of my consumption, but complied without comment.

When I was about half-way through stout number three, a woman, probably in her mid to late twenties with shoulder-length dark brown hair and very nice tits, but not much else to attract my attention, slid onto the empty stool beside me. I deliberately ignored her until she leaned over and whispered into my ear. "You're not one of the regulars, that's for sure."

I glanced at her, backing away slightly. I tried the grunt technique on her, too. It seemed to encourage her. "Ooh, I like the silent type," she professed. "Looking for some company tonight, luv?" she asked, leaning in even closer and running her sandal-clad foot against my shin.

Ah. I got the picture. Having finally drained stout number three, my level of intoxication was now high enough that she didn't look as horrifying as she had even five minutes earlier. I mumbled back, "What did you have in mind?"

"A little private party, luv. Just you and me. How old are you, anyway?" she belatedly inquired, apparently developing a level of concern about the age-related legality of approaching me. I thought it an odd question since the barkeep had served me without hesitation.

"Old enough."

She smiled predatorily. "How about you settle up with Henry and we'll go somewhere a little quieter?"

"How much?" I asked, leaving the interpretation of my question up to her.

She patted my cheek and said, "On the house, honey. You're a right pretty one."

I was naïve enough to believe her. I paid Henry - apparently that was the bartender's name – and followed the curvy brunette out of the pub. She took my hand and led me to a ramshackle motel – one I'd missed in my earlier search for a place to stay but would likely have passed up for its seedy condition – and to her room on the third floor. As she unlocked and opened the door, she turned and asked, "What should I call you, luv?"

I guessed that I now needed to establish my new identity, something that I could remember, even while inebriated, but that wouldn't sound familiar to anyone who might be acquainted with the wizarding world. "Drew," I decided. I'd come up with a new last name some other time.

"Well, Drew, let's get this party started," she suggested, opening her purse and pulling out a small clear packet of white powder. "More than enough for both of us." She emptied the substance onto a small mirror, using a razor blade to create narrow, straight lines. She pinched off one nostril and sniffed one line of the powder into the other, her eyes going wide and bright within seconds. "Your turn, Drew."

I was a little hesitant to consume something – clearly a Muggle drug of some sort – about which I knew nothing, but my reluctance was overcome by the combination of my alcohol intake and her fondling my cock through my trousers. I was young, and I was ready in seconds. Mimicking the action she'd demonstrated, I ingested one of the lines. Faster than I thought possible, I felt a euphoria that I'd never before experienced. Combined with the alcohol I'd already consumed, I was on another plane of existence. Before I knew it, she – I would learn later that she called herself "Candy" – was unzipping my fly and wrapping her lips around my cock, sucking me off like the pro that she was. She wrapped her hands around my hips, encouraging me to thrust into her mouth and taking me deep. Most birds I'd been with hadn't really liked that, so I was eager to comply. Gods, it was… incredible, and over in minutes. The high when I blew my load down her throat was simply indescribable. Watching her lick my seed off her lips had my dick twitching again. Merlin, I wanted that feeling again. Every problem or worry that I'd ever had simply disappeared.

It seemed, though, that she wasn't done with me, and I'd be getting my wish. She unbuckled my belt and tugged off my trousers, taking down the boxers at the same time. I cooperated by stripping off my jacket and shirt while she removed her dress, under which she wore nothing. How convenient. She steered me toward the bed and pushed on my shoulder just enough so that I got the message that she wanted me on my back. She crawled up over me, using her hand to be sure I was fully erect (not much of a problem for an almost-eighteen-year-old, even so quickly after an explosive release), and handed me a small foil packet labeled with the word "condom." I'd never used one before, as we use spells and potions in the wizarding world to prevent disease and pregnancy, but I wasn't so naïve that I hadn't heard of them. Knowing how to use one effectively, however, was another story. I smirked at her and handed it back. "You do it for me," I said.

She smiled lopsidedly and asked, "Not your first time, is it?"

I snorted in reply, making enough bleary eye contact that she could tell I was being honest. "Not even close. I just like it better this way," I excused. Okay, so that part was significantly less truthful.

She shrugged and said, "Whatever floats your boat." She ripped open the packet and removed the round item inside, positioning it over my cock and unrolling it over my length. Her hand caressing my organ made my hips buck, and she finally crawled up over my hips and sank down on me, taking in every inch. I'm not ridiculously long, but I'm thick, and she seemed to like that. With every rock of her hips, I met her with a sharp upward thrust. Her eyes went wide as I kept pace. I think she realized that I wasn't lying when I'd indicated that I wasn't a virgin. My previous orgasm also meant that I'd have a bit more stamina for this round, and after several minutes with her on top, I rolled us over and took control, fucking her hard and heavy. I shifted her legs so that her calves were resting on my shoulders, and I could feel her trembling. She came a few moments later with a shout – I know that it was real because I could feel her channel rippling along my shaft. I moved my knees closer together and pounded her fiercely, five or six more times, and finally came with a roar of my own. I pulled back, instinct telling me to hold the condom around my base as I withdrew from her.

She chuckled. "You're pretty talented with that cock for such a young one," she complimented.

"Naturally gifted and sufficient practice," I returned arrogantly, still high enough that I forgot to be silent. I felt the usual post-orgasm drowsiness overtake me and I was fairly certain that I wouldn't be welcome to actually fall asleep in her bed, so I forced myself to sit up and reached for my boxers.

"Where you going so fast, honey?" she asked, sounding amused. She tilted her head toward the white powder on the mirror. "Another round of blow and another fuck will only cost you thirty quid. You aren't ready to go home just yet, are you?" There was something slightly less friendly in this invitation than in her first.

And it was now clear that if I _did_ go without the second paid round, there'd likely be consequences that I wouldn't care to face. My supper had cost about ten, so I did have enough cash on me. And gods, the high was so fucking amazing. I hadn't _ever_ felt so good. I told myself that it was just what I needed, and that it was only thirty quid, an amount that was entirely insignificant in the grand scheme of things, and thoroughly worth it for the mental and physical escape that it would bring me. I reached for my trousers and handed over the cash from my pocket.

After round two, preceded by another line of what she'd called "blow", during which she'd sucked me off again and asked me to tease her arse with my thumb while I took her from behind, I was on sensory overload. I'd come four times in the space of two hours, give or take, and I knew I had to leave, as I had no more money to pay her. In a daze, I dressed slowly and - not really sure of the post-coital protocol when one fucks a paid whore – thanked her for a good time.

"You've got a delicious cock, sweet thing. I'd be happy to fuck you any time. Same rate, same conditions," she offered. She'd either forgotten my "name" or chose not to use it. Probably didn't believe it was real, anyway. "For a few more quid, well, we can negotiate." She laughed, but there was something not terribly funny about her tone.

I stumbled my way back to my rooming house, finally finding it after two or three wrong turns, and up the stairs, not even taking note of whether the fat man was at the front desk. I reeked of sex, still coated in my own bodily fluids and hers, and I released the wards I'd set on my door, tripping over the doormat as I entered the room. I righted myself with an assist from the edge of the bed and sat heavily, peeling off my clothing and heading for the bathroom. My head was just barely clear enough to know that I _needed_ to shower, and I managed to turn on the taps without causing any damage to myself or the facilities. I was not yet sober enough, though, to resist finding another high and I brought myself off in the shower yet again. The desperate urge to come seemed constant and overwhelming. There was a part of my brain that seemed to wonder whether it was the drug I'd taken that had precipitated the need. To a very large degree, I just didn't care. I absently watched my semen wash down the drain along with the residue of soap and shampoo, and I wondered if, or when, I'd fuck her – or anyone - again.

I turned off the tap, dried as best I could, and crawled into bed with my skin and hair still slightly damp, and forgetting the precaution of donning sleepwear that had seemed to important a mere twenty-four hours earlier. Before the high completely deserted me, I furiously wanked off one more time, finally passing out seconds after the semen had started to cool on my chest. That was the day it all began to go to hell.


	5. Chapter 4

For the next several days, I avoided going back to the pub where I'd met Candy. I knew in my gut that it wouldn't be a good idea for me to get dragged into an association with someone like her. Those were instincts to which I should have paid greater heed. Loneliness and boredom were a dangerous combination, though, and my hours were filled with painful wallowing. I had managed to stay sober long enough on the next day to find a market where I bought two tins of tea, three jugs of water, and a bottle of dishwashing soap, among other basic necessities. I'd discovered that the bog roll in the loo was almost empty and it was up to me to resupply. How mundane, I know, but it just illustrated further how all the things I hadn't considered – and had taken for granted - continued to mount. To make things slightly easier on myself, I extended my stay at the rooming house for the full month, paying the grunting desk attendant in small denominations to avert any suspicions. It was one tiny thing that would no longer niggle at me, at least for a short while.

Chief among my anxieties was the emotional toll of the isolation I'd forced upon myself. The great number of unknowns about what I'd left behind weighed heavily on my psyche, and I found that things that I'd told myself I didn't care about were haunting my waking thoughts as much as they did my fitful sleep. I had no one to talk to – my own fault, of course – and keeping it all in was driving me spare. My only sources of relief came in blissful inebriation or the momentary mental weightlessness from my self-induced orgasms. My todger was raw.

I replayed the events in the Room of Requirement over and over again, obsessing and second-guessing whether there was anything I could have done to prevent Vincent from casting the spell that killed him, and very nearly five others, or to change the outcome so that he'd made it out with the rest of us. There were moments when I almost wished that he and I could have traded places. Almost. Some moments more than others. Still not knowing the fate of any of those people was gnawing at me, even the Gryffindors about whom I normally wouldn't think once, never mind twice. I guess that their fates were so closely intertwined with the outcome of the battle that it was only natural for me to wonder. And after how cruel I'd been to her all those years, I especially didn't understand why Granger had insisted on not leaving Goyle and me to our fiery fates. I should have been thankful for her innate goodness, I suppose, but the quality of my life in those early weeks and months made me not really care whether I'd burned to a crisp.

It didn't take me more than a week and a half to drain the five bottles of alcohol that I'd procured prior to my departure. If one were counting, I was probably averaging the equivalent of eight or nine shots a day, more than enough to ensure that I was well pickled. I know that my mental functioning had suffered, and I'd go a good couple of days without ever leaving the room, getting out of bed only to relieve myself or to nibble on whatever food I had left. My personal hygiene, normally so meticulous, was sorely lacking, and I rarely dressed beyond boxers. (At least I was delaying my need to deal with dirty laundry.) That I didn't even care that that was true was a sure sign of extreme distress.

The need for a new supply of spirits was making me antsy, as I was down to my last half-bottle. Since the wand hadn't cooperated in duplicating the food I'd nicked, I made the logical leap that it wouldn't be any more effective in replenishing the alcohol. My booze of choice was usually Firewhisky, but I didn't think it prudent to return to any wizarding enclave so soon after my disappearance. I figured that, if my parents had survived and there was no sign of my corpse anywhere in the Hogwarts' vicinity, they'd be looking for me in other magical communities, and the likelihood that my image would be plastered all over every lamppost and window was pretty high. If they hadn't, or had been incarcerated or otherwise incapacitated, well, somebody else would probably have been looking for my hide for the purposes of skinning it.

I know that my father periodically stocked other spirits in his bar, some of which had been gifts from his little-known Muggle business associates, and I'd sampled one or two on a few occasions, usually when he was monopolizing the only Firewhisky bottle left in the place. I'd reached the point that it wasn't so much the taste that I cared about, anyway. The oblivion was what I was after. As long as I could manage to swallow it, the flavor of the alcohol was fundamentally immaterial.

I suppose that I had enough presence of mind to recognize that it would be less difficult to buy more alcohol if I appeared to be more presentable. I was still a couple of weeks away from being a legal adult in the Muggle world, but that was no obstacle. I could either fake an identification card – incredibly simple when one has a wand and an example, which I'd been incredibly fortunate to find on the floor in the stairwell – or use a suggestion spell to convince a wary clerk that I was eligible to make my purchase. Not quite as powerful as an Imperio (and with the added benefit of not being an Unforgivable), the spell I had in mind would work in a pinch. I'd discovered over the last several days of periodic experimentation that, other than the food problem, the wand I'd taken seemed to like me well enough. It liked "playful" spells, anything related to transfiguration, and charms connected to visual imagery. I was fairly confident that this was the kind of spell to which my wand would not object.

I'd finally reached the point where I was also nearly out of food. All of the cold meats I'd snitched were gone, as was the fruit. A small handful of savory biscuits, a quarter of a jar of peanut butter, and a half-pot of apricot preserves was the sum total of my ersatz pantry. I'd made several more attempts to duplicate my stash, going so far as to retain - under the most powerful preservation spells I could muster - one little bite of everything I had in my makeshift cupboard, but there was no success to be found. I had more than enough money to ensure that I was eating reasonably regular meals, so it was clearly something in my thinking – or lack thereof – that was stopping me from getting decent nourishment.

Gathering up the miniscule amount of motivation that still coursed through my veins, I dragged my ripe and stinky self into the bathroom and showered. Even then, my irrational desire for emotional escape intruded on rational behavior and I took advantage of the comfort offered by soap and water to get myself off again. I was long past the adolescent stage of self-gratification for curiosity's sake; this was a product of my desperation to feel _anything_ that wasn't pure pain. Regret, fear, isolation – it all disappeared for the minutes that I worked myself up and gave myself over to the almighty orgasm. I've no doubt that part of my subconscious recognized how fucked up it was, but it apparently didn't matter to the other ninety-eight percent.

I was feeling pretty relaxed as I sauntered through the lobby and out onto the street, having only just remembered to put my Glamour charms in place before leaving my room. There were plenty of off licence establishments within walking distance, but the most logical choice was the local market where I could also restock my food supply. With about £100, my Disillusioned wand, and my exceptionally accurate fake identification - proclaiming my name to be Drew Blackman and my age to be twenty - in my pocket, I set off on my mission.

So that I didn't stand out like a sore thumb, I nonchalantly watched other patrons for a few moments before taking one of the wheeled baskets from the market's entrance, pretending to study the flyer that proclaimed goods offered at sale prices for the week. As I walked along the aisles with my metal shopping cart, I was enthralled by the vast selection of food available in this Muggle market. In the wizarding world, all of the food procurement was handled by order and delivery from specialty purveyors, at least in my home. I suppose it's possible that might have been slightly out of the norm for less affluent families, but I didn't know anything different. This market seemed to have some of everything one could hope to purchase, and it was more than a bit overwhelming. I also had to keep in mind that I had no dedicated cooking implements in my rented room, so as much as I was craving a perfect French omelet (if I'd known how to prepare one), the cauldron I'd brought with me could really only be used for heating things like tinned soup. Even toast would be a challenge, but I didn't want to spend any more than was absolutely necessary, so "upgrading" to a room with a kitchenette felt like an extravagance I couldn't afford and a luxury I wasn't equipped to use. All in all, it wasn't going to happen.

So in the end, I bought more cold meats, sliced cheeses, a loaf of bread, and a jar of mustard. I threw in a bag of green apples, too. While I was starting to get sick of peanut butter, it was inexpensive and supposedly packed with protein, so I grabbed another two jars of that, along with another pot of raspberry preserves. Breakfast for the next several days consisted of muffins, scones, and cold cereals with milk, which I'd placed under a chilling charm. I seemed to remember having cold cereal when I was a small child, although the memories are vague. I do know that my mother often told me that I was a very picky eater as a tot, going through phases where I'd consume only one or two items to the exclusion of all else. I also added a few tins of prepared soup and something that resembled pasta. (Merlin, that stuff was awful and I never bought it again, even at my most desperate.) Since I'd brewed a rather large batch of hangover potion on one of my more lucid afternoons, I figured that the cauldron might as well be put to use for something productive.

Also added to my cart were two bottles of whisky. While the name "Jack Daniels" meant nothing to me, there was a fairly large display of it, so I concluded that it was something that was well-known and thus, reasonably acceptable. I'd had Scotch a time or two and not found it objectionable, so I added a bottle of that, too. Finally, one bottle each of vodka and gin, also items that I'd sampled from my father's bar without too much disgust, rounded out my supply.

It was a darned good thing that I'd brought a reasonably good chunk of money with me, as the cost for the alcohol alone was a little over £60, and I hadn't bought anything close to the most expensive brands. Getting soused wasn't cheap. The clerk inspected my identification in the most cursory fashion, and I paid my bill and was on my way.

When I returned to the rooming house, a different attendant, also male and elderly but nearly as emaciated as his co-worker was rotund, was staffing the desk. He was no more talkative than the other man, and didn't even grunt at me as I passed through the lobby, laden down with my purchases. I was fine with that. Glancing right and left to ensure that no one else was in the hallway, I removed my wand from my pocket and released my security spells, noting gratefully that none of the wards or alarms had been tripped. I took another five minutes to stow and preserve, as much as was possible, my perishables, and cracked open the bottle of Scotch once I was finished.

Since I only had a small amount of Firewhisky left, I resolved to save it. For what, I hadn't the vaguest idea, but it seemed the thing to do, because Merlin only knew when I'd have the opportunity to replenish. I poured a good two fingers of the Scotch into a tumbler that I'd found in one of the pockets of my duffle. I don't even remember packing it, to be honest, but it had definitely been enhanced with a charm to prevent breakage, so I must have done it somewhere along the way. The burn of Scotch is dramatically different from Firewhisky. For one, it's not hot like the wizarding beverage literally is. For another, it's quite a bit sweeter. In many ways, it's easier to drink, and something told me that I'd need to pace myself or I'd be passed out before I could enjoy the buzz. I told myself that, if I limited my drink to just the one tumbler, I'd treat myself to a hot meal, since I was reasonably presentable and not stumbling-down drunk. I also made the promise that I'd not go to the pub where I'd met the brunette streetwalker.

I tore a few more pages out of one of my faux books and reversed the transfiguration spell that had hidden their true form, stuffing the bank notes into my pocket along with the identification card that I'd created. Because I'd been hiding out in my room for a number of days, I hadn't spent much, I rationalized. Splurging on a hot supper was not going to break me. I refreshed my Glamours, just to be on the safe side, and renewed the wards and protection charms on the room as I left. I'd worn a pair of simple black trousers of wizarding tailoring, so they had the added advantage of having a long wand pocket sewn into the seam along my right thigh as an extension of the garment's regular pocket, but completely invisible to the naked eye. I was still not comfortable with making any alterations to the wand, and even less comfortable to be without it. Fortunately, trousers were trousers, regardless of where they were tailored, and the styling would attract no undue attention. The short-sleeved black tee-shirt that I wore made them appear less dressy, and I debated for only a moment before casting a Glamour that altered my Dark Mark so that it appeared to be a full-color serpent. Only another Death Eater would take a second look, I thought. This was also another puzzle that I would somehow need to decipher. I knew that my father's Dark Mark had faded after the Dark Lord's first defeat, but I'd never thought to ask how long the process had taken. Had it been days, weeks, months, years? I truly had no idea. Thus, although mine seemed less… angry, it was still prominent on my arm, giving me no additional clues as to the freak's fate, and thereby, the outcome of the battle.

I set out from the rooming house in the opposite direction from the way I'd traveled on my last excursion, and found that there was little difference in the kinds of establishments I encountered. One pub pretty much looked, smelled, and sounded like another, with only the number and identity of the patrons to differentiate them. I decided to count to one hundred as I walked, and the first pub I encountered once I'd met that milestone would be my choice for the evening.

That led me to a place that was infinitely more bar than dining establishment, but I'd committed, right?

Since it was slightly on the early side of the evening for patrons in it solely for the drink, the place wasn't quite as crowded as I knew it would be in another hour. I found an unoccupied two-person table and took a seat. It wasn't more than two minutes before a waitress approached.

"What's your poison, lad?" she asked, leaning over just enough to be certain that I'd caught a very good look at her prominently displayed breasts, popping out from the white vee-necked top she wore. They were exceptionally large, to be sure, but I've never thought of myself as exclusively attracted to huge tits. And she was rather older than I'd want to deal with, probably mid-thirties, at least.

"Double whisky, neat," I started, then added, "And a menu."

She smirked at me and pointed over her shoulder. "Menu's on the chalkboard."

I nodded and tried to avoid the flush that I felt creeping up my neck. I'd immediately revealed myself as outsider.

"Nice art. You in on one of the ships?" she asked, nodding toward my left forearm.

"Thanks. No." I know I sounded abrupt, but I really didn't want to engage in small talk. I wanted my whisky and something to eat. I deliberately averted my gaze toward the chalkboard she'd indicated and quickly evaluated the limited menu, immediately narrowing my choices to either the fish and chips or the baked chicken. The ubiquitous cottage pie was the last real meal I'd eaten, and I wanted something else. "I'll have the chicken."

Apparently getting the message that I wasn't the talkative sort, she rattled off the options – chicken soup or house salad, baked or mash, peas or broccoli – from which I had to choose and I answered her perfunctorily. With another smirk, she turned on her heel to place the order and get my drink from the bar.

The beverage was delivered promptly, and I resisted the temptation to slam the whole shot. It's significantly more expensive to buy a drink in an on-site spot than to purchase your own bottle, so I was trying to be practical as well as avoiding the possibility of stumbling back to my room. I nursed the drink while I waited for my meal to be delivered, but my glass was nearly empty by the time the buxom waitress returned.

She set the plate on the table in front of me and asked, "Another double?"

I hesitated briefly. "Sure." Gods, I was so weak. I drained the last drops from my glass and handed it to her.

When she delivered the next one, she gave me a tall glass of water, too. "Don't know what you're tryin' to forget, luv, but do remember to pace yourself." Rather than the temptress she'd attempted to be earlier, now she was maternal. It was fucking with my brain.

I ate slowly, relishing the hot meal even if the chicken was terribly dry, the mashed potatoes excessively salty and the broccoli ridiculously overcooked. At least the salad had been crisp, if boring and pedestrian. I'd never thought that I would say that I missed the meals at Hogwarts, but that was gourmet fare in comparison to this. As inadequate as it was on the culinary spectrum, it was the best meal I'd had in nearly a week, so for all its faults, I was planning to enjoy it as best I could. I even managed to stretch out my second drink to last 'til nearly the last bite. When the waitress returned to clear away my plate, only the bones of the fowl remaining, she glanced at my empty glass.

"Anything else for you, handsome?"

I wanted another, but the disapproval in her tone made me hesitate. I still couldn't tell you why. Then I got defiant. Who the fuck was she to imply what I should or shouldn't do? She wasn't my mother, who for all I knew, was dead and buried, and to whom I likely would not have listened anyway. She was here to serve whatever I requested. "One more, and my check," I said, leaning back in my chair indolently and making myself comfortable.

She left with a shrug and was back with my drink before I could count to sixty.

The place wasn't terribly crowded yet, but it was filling up, and it wasn't long before a young woman approached my table and asked whether the other seat was "taken." Not reading anything into her question, I said, "Help yourself," thinking that she wanted the chair. Instead, she slid into it and made herself at home across the table from me. I was about to tell her to get lost when she said something that sounded very familiar.

"Aren't you interested in a little company tonight, luv?"

What was it about me that seemed to attract prostitutes? Was there something about my manner or appearance that screamed "punter"? As much as I would have liked to get laid, I wasn't interested in paying for it again. I looked her up and down (if I'm honest, she wasn't half-bad-looking – much more attractive than Candy) and said, "Not in the market."

She glared at me. The level of indignation in her expression made it pretty clear that I'd assumed incorrectly. Wasn't the first time I'd made an arse of myself, and certainly wasn't the last. She leaned forward and hissed out her words. "I'm not looking for money, you shit. I thought you weren't especially ugly and I was looking for _company_." The way she emphasized the word made it clear, though, that she was absolutely talking about sex.

"My mistake and my apologies," I said, as contritely as I could muster. "You might want to reconsider your approach, though, luv, as it's not uncommon for… ladies of the evening to use that phrase."

She chewed at her bottom lip, debating over something. Most likely she was choosing between slapping my face and kneeing my bollocks. If there hadn't been a table in the way, I'm rather certain which would have been her choice. I was expecting her to get up and leave any second, but she shocked the crap out of me when she said, "Then, let's start this over. I'm Abby. Can I buy you a drink?"

I was so surprised that I let out a guffaw, something I _never_ would have done if I'd been sober. "That's a switch." I had no choice but to conclude that she was itching for a fuck. Some girls are like that, or so I've been told. I figured it wouldn't hurt to play along for a while. I could always back out somewhere along the way if she turned out to be too clingy or something. A visit to the loo was all I needed to make my escape via Apparition, and no one would be the wiser. It struck me that that was a strategy that I might want to keep in mind for any number of uncomfortable situations, assuming I wasn't too inebriated to avoid Splinching myself. Finally, I answered, "Sure, and if you're decent company, maybe I'll buy the next round."

It turned out that she wasn't bad company and after three rounds of drinks, two of which were on me, her proximity to me had shifted from across the table to nearly in my lap. She was nibbling on my neck, and while most blokes are loathe to admit it, that's always been a spot that gets my motor going. I paid the tab and said, "Do you have somewhere you'd like to go?" I almost didn't recognize my own voice for its huskiness.

She took my hand and led the way out of the bar and down the street for two blocks, pausing now and then to feel me up or allow me to grope her. We were in public, but it was dark and neither of us was sober enough to care about any spectacle we might be creating. She took me to her flat, a small but relatively tidy place on the fourth floor of a building that was slightly less run-down than many of the others in the neighborhood.

As she crossed the threshold and tugged me in, she was already using her other hand to undo the buttons on her blouse. It seemed that there was no pretense about what we were here to do. I was fine with that. She dropped articles of clothing in her wake as I followed her to the bedroom. I'd found the mental clarity to remove my shirt and unbuckle my belt before she came toward me wearing only her bra and knickers. She was rather fit, and it definitely fueled my arousal when she decided to assist me in removing my trousers, reaching into my open fly to stroke my cock.

"You want some ecstasy?" she asked as she slowly pumped my shaft.

"Of course," I answered, anticipating that she might suck me off. That was not what she was talking about, I was to discover in just another moment.

"Be right back," she whispered, trailing her hand along my length before leaving the room for a moment. I shrugged, not quite comprehending why she'd left, but assuming that maybe she wanted a visit to the loo. I took the opportunity to take off my shoes, socks, and trousers, stretching out on the bed with a rather prominent tent in my boxers. When she returned a moment later, she had an open bottle of wine and something clutched in the palm of her hand. She opened it, revealing two small tablets, one yellow and one green. "They're the same. Pick one."

Not wanting to appear as clueless as I was, and in a very uncomfortable echo of what had happened with Candy and her "blow," I deferred only momentarily, saying, "Ladies first."

She smiled, popped the yellow pill in her mouth, and washed it down with a healthy swig from the wine bottle. She handed it to me, and I hesitated only a second more before taking the green pill and swallowing it with a generous mouthful of wine. While I would normally never had taken a drink from the same vessel as someone else, I figured we'd be swapping all kinds of fluids over the next hour or so. What difference would sharing a drink from the same wine bottle make?

She joined me then in stretching out on the bed, getting very enthusiastic about exploring my body. I returned the favor, unclasping her bra and tossing it away. "Shouldn't be long now," she said.

"Huh?" I asked, not understanding what she was talking about.

"The E. Should hit in about five more minutes. Do you have a condom on you?"

Oh yeah, those. "No, sorry, I didn't grab one when I left," I deflected.

"In the nightstand," she said, reaching over me to pull open the drawer.

Glancing over, I saw a box of condoms, a small bottle of lube, and what appeared to be a pink, penis-shaped implement. This bird liked her sex. I turned to remove one of the foil packets from the box and handed it to her. "You put it on me," I rasped.

She took the packet, but just placed it on the bed beside my hip. "I think I want to suck you first, and I hate the taste of that thing."

No argument here. I smiled lopsidedly and lifted my hips so that she could continue to tug off my pants. She wasted no time, licking my cock like a lolly, then taking me deep in her throat. On every pass upwards, she applied strong suction and I wondered why girls in Liverpool seemed so much more likely to enjoy giving head than some of the girls I'd dated. I wasn't complaining, by any stretch, merely curious. I noticed that she was wiggling out of her knickers and I got the message that she first wanted a little help, and then was inviting me to return the favor. We shifted and twisted until we were in position to pleasure each other simultaneously, and while I'd done this before, it was absolutely the first time while high and/or _this_ drunk. Then the "E" kicked in.

It's not necessary to detail every position and the number of times we fucked, but Merlin, I think we used up the whole box of condoms. I'd never come so hard and so much, or been so deliriously ecstatic over the experience. It was fucking perfect, what that little pill was called. I passed out at some point and actually slept the night in Abby's bed, but she was gone when I woke up. She left a note that read, "Hey, Drew. Thanks for a great time. Coffee in the kitchen in the white carafe. It'd be awesome to hook up again. Call me sometime! Abby"

I found the bathroom, pissed like a racehorse, and nearly panicked when my own face looked back at me from the mirror. I could only hope that she'd either left before the Glamours wore off or that she hadn't noticed the subtle differences in my appearance in the harsh light of day. I decided that there was nothing I could do about it in the moment, so I fished my boxers out from under the bed. I wanted a shower desperately, but I also didn't want to stick around. As bad as it was after the Candy episode, I was positively sticky with gods knew what. The scent of sex was rank throughout the room, but I truly didn't care. I'd had a night that didn't include nightmares for the first time in as long as I could remember. If I wanted a decent night's rest, all I needed to do was get seriously high and thoroughly laid. I did remember, just before leaving, to take the little note on which Abby had written her phone number. I finally had a use for the black push-button telephone on my nightstand, if I chose to repeat the experience with the woman who introduced me to E. It was the kind of night I was to relive more times than I could count.

A/N Your thoughts and feedback are welcome!


	6. Chapter 5

My first four weeks in Liverpool had come and gone, and because I really had no reason to be elsewhere and no pressing desire to leave, I extended my stay at the rooming house, that time for three months, payable on the first of each month. Nobody bothered me, and I suppose that I was not a terrible tenant, if paying my rent in full and on time was a measure. I think I was a relatively quiet drunk, and I never brought the birds I fucked back to my room. I'd visited far more than my share of small motel rooms and apartments in those weeks, though. At least the hookers I fucked once in a great while generally had a room for which they had already paid. They were usually a last resort, however, on the rare occasion that I couldn't find a keen… amateur. Springing for a few drinks or even an evening's supply of blow or E was somehow far easier to swallow than paying for the sex.

It seemed that the nightlife around Liverpool, even – or maybe especially - here near the docks, was remarkably active, and one could visit a new pub or bar every night for a number of weeks without repeating. I was making it my mission to do just that. It wasn't that I was… enjoying myself. Quite the contrary, in fact. I was so fucking miserable that I couldn't stand my own company, and the possibility that I'd find a willing partner who was as interested in getting high as getting laid was a powerful draw. I guess my Muggle Studies class in fourth year had been good for something because I'd actually managed to figure out how to use the telephone to call Abby once, even leaving a halting message on her answering machine, but I belatedly realized that I didn't know the phone number that rang in my room. She probably thought that failing to leave my number meant that I wasn't all that interested in hearing back from her. It's not untrue that a convenient hook-up was what I was after. No matter, it was easier than I'd ever thought possible to find someone to serve as my sex toy for an evening. Turns out, I never did see her again. Losing her number in my pit of a room had been a significant contributing factor.

I also discovered very quickly that procuring Muggle stimulants was far easier than I'd thought it would be. While it wasn't uncommon to find someone willing to share in exchange for something or other, every pub seemed to have someone in residence who could, for the appropriate price and with the tiniest bit of discretion, provide blow, E, weed (the other slang name for which made me laugh nervously, calling to mind the Chosen One whose ultimate fate I still did not know), crack, yellow jackets, or just about anything else one might want to find his way into oblivion. That I'd learned the language of it so easily was as much a shock to my self-perception as the fact that I was very regularly seeking those highs. I suppose that I shouldn't have been surprised to find that the sex, drugs, and booze seemed to go hand in hand. I'd generally start with booze, but it was rarely enough. I wanted to disappear into the highs, and I didn't much care how far gone I got, as long as I was, at some point, coherent enough to find my way back to the rooming house.

At first, it was once a week, usually on a Friday night, as best I could tell. Watching the calendar was not something I cared about much. Within a couple of weeks, I began to go out in search of my thrills on two consecutive nights, wanting the rush, and I suppose on some level, the human connection – however fleeting and meaningless it may have been – of touching and being touched by another person, regardless of the fact that there was not a shred of affection involved. It was fucking and getting off, nothing more, nothing less. And there was nothing that I wanted more than to get off, over and over and over again. There was also almost no excuse that I couldn't conjure. I even used the "clueless guy at the laundry" ruse (the "ruse" part more truth than I actually cared to admit once I learned how simple the process was) to first get my washing handled and then a blow job in the rest room while my clothes dried. It had only cost me a couple of E pills and a joint. She wasn't terribly bright, as I recall, but her tongue contained enough talent to make her memorable.

The booze that I would consume before going out for the evening was simply what my father would have called "social lubricant." It gave me the additional bravado and pseudo courage that allowed me to approach women without care to whether they'd shoot me down when I – sometimes bluntly – asked them if they were up for some "private partying" – the terminology I'd adopted from my first encounter with Candy. Stunning, some days, that I could even remember her name, but I suppose that a young man's first hooker makes an indelible impression. I hadn't considered whether any of the women I spoke to would think that I held the same profession as did Candy, that is until in my exceptionally inebriated state, I approached a woman who must have been at least twice my age. It was either testament to her looks, my state of drunkenness, or sheer desperation that I paid her any attention, especially considering how I'd completely dismissed the busty waitress I'd encountered a few weeks earlier who was probably younger by a good five or six years. She was unflinchingly accurate in thinking that a young man barely out of his teens (and I wasn't even that) was probably unlikely to be interested in her without an ulterior motive for his attention. Although I certainly hadn't asked for it in any way, I didn't disabuse her of her assumptions and I actually accepted the fifty quid she stuffed into my pocket after I fucked her on her sofa, in her bed, and under the shower. Despite the fact that she was significantly older, the bird was remarkably fit, especially to my E-enhanced perception. I did learn a thing or two from her, come to think of it. One of those lessons was that, under the right circumstances, I was apparently a whore.

I hadn't really cared, because I'd had it off three times, got higher than a kite, and walked away without having spent money that was being pissed away at a rate that would have me on the street far sooner than my original three-year plan. And how immature and foolish was I to have ever thought that I could survive without finding ways to replenish my funds at some point? The one-way nature of my financial situation would require that I find a source of income, or at the very least, access to one of my Gringotts accounts, as depleted as they already were, relatively speaking. Gainful employment for someone who's always drunk or high is not an easy thing to accomplish, even if I had any skills that could be marketable in the Muggle world, and I was unwilling, if not yet unable, to give up my drugging, boozing and screwing for something as mundane as a job. My plan, such as it was, was essentially rubbish. My share of the Malfoy fortune, or whatever was left of it, was being fucked, pissed, and snorted away, and I truly hadn't a single clue what to do about it, much less the energy to muster an ounce of give-a-shit. That I hadn't even considered just returning "home" was as much a testament to my state of my mind as my continuing – in fact, escalating – need to fuck anyone who was willing and consume nearly any drug offered to me. The only place I drew the line – Merlin help me if I'd not – was injecting anything into my veins. The convenient excuse of squeamishness around needles (not entirely untrue) served me well and probably kept me from a resting place six feet underground.

One stormy night about eight weeks after my arrival, I had an experience that should have scared me completely sober, but it was testament to my stupidity and sense of invincibility (I'd survived a war, after all, so how could a little chemical mood alteration do me in?) that it had only slowed me down for a handful of days, if that. It was the kind of night that offered no other diversions than drinks, drugs, and getting laid to any number of young adults who had a lot of time and a little bit of money on their hands. Around half ten, I found myself in the sleaziest bar I'd yet visited, and the rest of the clientele were as on the pull for a fuck and a fix as I was. The hook-ups were coming fast and furious, and pair after pair found their ways to dark corners or, now and again, braved the raging tempest in search of more private accommodations. This place was so dodgy, though, that it wouldn't have shocked me to see more than a little foreplay, if not outright fucking, in plain sight.

The gloominess of the weather was undoubtedly a contributor to my dour mood, and I found myself sucking down more alcohol than usual, my swigs synchronized perfectly with the crashes of thunder outside the windows, their opacity guaranteed by so much grime and tobacco smoke that I could barely see the vivid flashes of lightning. By the time midnight approached, I'd had five, possibly six whiskies. Even for an accomplished imbiber such as myself, that was a ridiculous amount of alcohol to consume in just over ninety minutes. Regardless, the result was that I was spectacularly soused, barely stable enough to leave my bar stool, and ready to say "yes" to whomever came along with any proposition that included more booze, drugs of nearly any sort, and sex that didn't include bestiality or pedophilia.

I was misfortunate enough that my wish was granted not fifteen minutes later by a blonde of indeterminate age (due more to my incredible level of inebriation than her appearance) and equally suspect character, as if that would have been a deterrent in my state of mind. In retrospect, I probably counted that as advantageous. The details are somewhat unclear as to how we actually hooked up, but I do know that I found myself alone in a hovel of a hotel room with this woman a short time after we'd first made eye contact.

We shared more whisky and got progressively more incoherent. At some point, she offered me some ecstasy which I readily accepted. Now, I've since learned that there are times when E can interfere with the ability to achieve an erection, especially if one has been drinking heavily, but I didn't know that at the time. Even though I couldn't get it up at that moment didn't mean that I wasn't itching for a fuck. She claimed that she had a solution in the form of a little blue pill, which I think had a name starting with V. I remember both of us being naked on the bed, and her doing her best imitation of a vacuum with her mouth on my cock. When the drug started to hit my bloodstream, I was still in the midst of the E high, and my Johnson got harder than a rock. I remember her riding me – vigorously – then taking me in her mouth again, then back onto my lap, but other than my dick, my body didn't want to cooperate with movement. My limbs felt like overcooked noodles and my heart began to race, faster than anything I'd ever experienced. It wasn't the pleasant racing that one gets from impending orgasm, but rather the kind one feels when a heart attack is imminent. I couldn't breathe, and my cock felt like it would explode, but not in a good way. She seemed oblivious to my distress, though, and just rode me harder, apparently trying to achieve her own release, or maybe just to get a reaction from me. I couldn't tell you if she was successful in the first, but there was no doubt that the second was a complete failure. I'm certain that I lost consciousness, but for how long and in how much danger I'd been, I have no idea. All I know is that the bitch was gone when I finally came to, probably many hours later, based on the bright sunshine streaming through the torn curtain. My brush with a drug cocktail overdose hadn't been fatal, obviously, but it should have – and did for only a couple of days – scared me shitless.

I apparently learned the opposite lesson somewhere along the way: I'd survived, I was young and strong, and a little experimentation wouldn't kill me, as long as I didn't use the little blue pill along with any of the multitude of stimulants I tried. The two or three days after that episode, however, were as sober as I'd been in months. If only it had lasted.

It was a potion, not booze, which pitched me back over the edge. I'd forgotten in my haze of drugs and alcohol how many nightmares I'd had when I was not self-medicated. The couple of days that I'd laid off the Muggle chemicals saw those horrid dreams returning to interrupt my sleep and threatening my sanity. If I wanted to banish them – and I most definitely did – I thought I had no choice but to take some Dreamless Sleep draught. The version I'd made, however, had a mood enhancer along with the sedative. I can't even remember who taught me to make it that way, or if it was something that I concocted myself. I don't know if I was technically addicted at that point to any of the drugs I was taking. I varied what I took often enough that I didn't _think_ I'd built a specific chemical dependency. If anything, I thought I was addicted to sex. Or more specifically, to orgasm. If I wasn't fucking someone every day, I took my cock into my own hand morning, noon, and night. Gods, if it had been a couple of inches longer or I was more flexible, well, use your imagination. Yeah, anyway. The Dreamless Sleep potion, however, was highly addictive and I'd been cautioned more than once about taking too much of it. Not knowing whether the potion or the drugs were worse, I did what any sanity-impaired person would do and decided not to choose. I took both: the Muggle stimulants to get the euphoria I craved and the magical potions to bring myself down so that I could sleep.

It's probably a distinction without a difference, but the question of addiction, for me, seemed to hinge on the chemical or the feeling it produced. In my desperate attempts to escape reality – to the point that four months after I'd left, I _still_ had no idea what the outcome at Hogwarts had been – I was seeking anything that could numb me, make me feel levels of euphoria that I'd rarely encountered in my youth and teen years, or give me the illusion of a trouble-free life. Whether I'd fallen prey to chemical or psychological dependency was hardly material, I thought. The result was the same. I couldn't stop, and sooner or later when the drugs, booze and fucking failed to produce the same highs, I'd go in search of methods to enhance those feelings. In rare moments of true lucidity, that did scare the shit out of me. Something drastic would need to happen to break the cycle, and I calculated that my death was among the very likely possibilities. The saddest part of the whole situation was that I wasn't so sure that I cared.

I couldn't face the question, never mind process the thought, that people I'd known all my life had actually died over the conflict between one man's twisted vision of his own supremacy and the right of those with different origins to live and work in our world. There'd been a rumor floating around for months – one of the things that prompted me to begin questioning what the fuck was really going on – that the Dark Lord was not even a pureblood, but a Half-blood whose obsessed mother had tricked his father into some semblance of a relationship with love potions. The hypocrisy that implied was too much for my brain to sort out. I have no idea whether the story was entirely true or just a bit of propaganda disseminated by Dumbledore and the Ministry, but even the possibility that portions of it were accurate was stunning, putting everything my parents ever taught me about the elevated worth of certain magical bloodlines into question. I was not willing to die for such a cause, or such a wizard, and that others already had made my stomach turn. I could not even entertain the thought that the conflict was on-going. If I'd thought that to be true, I think I might have taken a deliberate overdose and ended my long-distance misery.

As angry as I'd been at my parents' weakness and their failure to keep me out of the fray, there was a part of me that recognized how incredibly difficult it would have been to extract themselves from their former support of him once old snake-face had completed his resurgence. As more time passed, the anger merged with grief at the thought that, for one reason or another, I'd probably never see them again. I began to wonder if I'd ever see anyone from my former life again, and curiosity over their fates once again consumed me. Just as compelling was the question of whether anyone cared about what had happened to me. Were people looking for me for reasons other than wanting to lock me up or murder me? I thought that the likelihood was slim, with the possible exception of my parents, if they were even still alive.

It had become second nature for me to wear my Glamours by then, and the wand that had been periodically finicky began to respond slightly better. I barely had to wave it to get the alterations to my appearance in place, and they were blessedly long-lasting. The only time I wore my own visage was when I was locked alone in my room. Someone could have walked right past me on the street and never known who I was. I suppose that's what I'd wanted from this self-imposed exile, but I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't aching to see a familiar face.

A/N: For those of you awaiting Hermione's arrival: Patience, darlings, she'll be showing up very soon!


	7. Chapter 6

My fifth month in Liverpool was momentous for any number of reasons, but the most significant of them was a chance encounter that would ultimately change the course of my life. The timing of it probably should have been uncomfortable, if not humiliating, but I'd long since lost any sense of shame along with my sobriety and my relative sexual naiveté. Just weeks earlier, I'd been wishing for just such a happenstance. What the hell had I been thinking? In recalling it, I still felt the shudders along my spine, probably as pronounced as the ones at the moment I'd seen her. More on that later; the path to that part of my story is just as riveting, I think, not unlike watching a train wreck in slow motion.

Partly because I was too lazy to clean up (or pack up) my room and partly because it was the path of least resistance, I renewed my stay at the rooming house for another three months. The two elderly men – apparently brothers, I'd somehow learned, though I don't remember how - who staffed the check-in desk and managed the building were only slightly more communicative than their typical grunts, adding a nod now and again for this comparatively long-term tenant. They didn't bother me and I didn't trouble them, except once to ask about the possibility of getting new towels for the bath. I'd learned quickly that laundering all of the linens was my own responsibility, but the greying bits of terry cloth were practically translucent in their shabbiness. I'd received a new(er) set along with one of those ubiquitous grunts, the meaning of which I chose not to bother to decipher. I further chose not to contemplate what happened to the set I gave back.

My formerly fastidious habits had fallen by the wayside, so I'm not exactly sure why the marginally better towels had been so important to me. I guess that there was something in the back of my brain telling me that it'd be easier to find a willing fuck partner if I didn't reek. Stinking of someone else's sex generally made it less likely that another bird would be interested in getting her scent on me. (I don't need to tell you that my sarcasm has always been fundamental to my style of communication, do I?) So I showered after every fuck, although sometimes not until the next morning. I didn't care if I stunk of sex; it made the final wank of the night slightly less solitary. And the shower at ten or eleven the next day was an excuse for one or two more. Since I usually _tried_ not to drink or pop a pill before noon, I had to have my other favorite high to tide me over.

I guess it was a good thing that the Glamours were coming so easy, too, as one look in the mirror on a particularly harsh morning showed that what had been an asset of being not unpleasant to look at was somehow also being frittered away. My eyes were rimmed in red and grey, sunken and tired. My skin was sallow and slack. Even my hair had lost its luster, turning brittle and dry. The expensive grooming products that I'd brought with me were now depleted, and I was being frugal where I could. (It's not that I didn't have money left; I still had thousands of pounds and Galleons in my room. It's just that I knew I didn't have a plan for replenishment and that made me miserly in the extreme, except when it came to liquid and chemical intoxicants, on which I spent freely.) Generic market brands served for my toiletries now. I used that as an excuse for my deplorable condition, never allowing myself to consciously tag the blame on the excessive consumption of illicit substances to which it rightly belonged.

In the first couple of weeks of my exile, I'd actually put on a couple of pounds, probably a result of eating lots of carbohydrates and fats. (Yes, we did have some education on nutrition in the wizarding world. We may be backward in some things, but contrary to assumptions from in-coming Muggle-borns, "science" was not ignored, particularly when one's health was involved. How ironic, I know.) Since then, though, I'd lost all of that weight and more, and my clothes were once again feeling decidedly roomy. Did I do anything about it? No, I most certainly did not. I shrugged, tightened my belt, refreshed my Glamours again, and poured another Scotch.

There was one hygienic issue, though, about which I seemed to have an obsessive focus. Although I must admit that the sensation was not _quite_ as good as going bare-back, I _never_ fucked anyone without a condom (I'd bought two large boxes at the Boots on the next block and carried at least three little foil packets with me as a matter of habit, replenishing my supply from the Muggle apothecary with eyebrow-raising frequency). I'd also taken to casting contraceptive and disease charms before leaving my room, every single time, whether my destination was the grocery mart or a pub. One never knew, after all, when an opportunity to get laid might arise. Since magical medical care was somewhat out of reach at the moment, I preferred not to deal with some kind of sexually transmitted ailment. Our sixth-year gender-segregated health and hygiene classes in Hogwarts had been particularly instructive – and shockingly graphic – on the ills and evils that one could encounter, a lesson that had made an everlasting impression on my young mind. I liked my todger and bollocks just as they were, thank you very much. Oral sex was a little different; I'd not yet encountered anyone who preferred to suck me off with a rubber in the way. Even the "flavored" ones were pretty nasty, and in any case, did nothing to compare to the feeling of tongue. Since the bulk of the risk was on the sucker, so to speak, I let them worry about their own health, although the charms I cast did ensure that my cock was as clean as it could be. If someone were particularly reluctant, I was willing to avoid releasing in her mouth. I had enough sexual self-discipline to be a gentleman even when I was a cad. (Still, I was happily surprised by the number of my partners who had no compunction about swallowing.) Considering the sheer number and variety of people I'd fucked, I was probably doing all of Liverpool a favor with my genital fastidiousness.

That two nights a week of carousing I mentioned? It wasn't long before it became four, or even five. The other couple of nights, I remained in my room in a largely futile attempt to conserve a little money. Didn't mean that I didn't get high and drunk, and Merlin knows, had any fewer orgasms. It was all just on my own. Whenever I was the least bit bored or tired or depressed or lonely, which was _always_, my hand was on my cock. My general slothfulness and distaste for chores would probably have meant managing to launder my sheets once a month. Sleeping in my veritable buckets of dried semen, however, was less than pleasant. (Hence, one of the multitude of reasons I tugged on my cock in the shower so often.) Thus, I'd make a weekly trip to the Laundromat, usually turning it into an opportunity to hit on a bird and get laid or sucked off. It worked almost every single time.

One particularly dreary late October night, a series of events and decisions that were, at the time, rather jarring to my general health and self-perception, set me on a path that only Fate - or a particularly devious Slytherin – could have conjured. The night was falling earlier, with full darkness arriving no later than five o'clock, and with the stars came tacit permission to drink and drug to excess. Thus, I got a head-start on the general populace and was pretty blitzed by the time I wandered out onto the streets with my usual mission of finding a person in whom I could bury my cock. I found someone, alright.

By the time I made it out of my rooming house, I was far beyond tipsy and well into sloshed. I thought I'd developed a bit of a tolerance with the quantities that I'd been drinking, but I guess I'd surpassed my stability limit because I was less than steady on my feet as I traversed the neighborhood. In my quest to not repeat at a single pub, I bypassed several establishments that I'd already visited on my way into a side street that I'd not yet explored. I went to the end of the alley and found the last door on the block, taking little note of things like names and signs. The first thing I noticed was that it was slightly less smoky than some of the other places I'd entered and that was definitely a plus. It was also very, very dark. Candlelight flickered here and there, and I'm sure I saw what I'd learned were "glow sticks" wrapped around the wrists of people dancing to a sultry jazz piece. The quality of the music was such that I was fairly certain it was recorded rather than live. Either my vision was compromised or it was just that dark that I couldn't actually see the people, only the glowing rings swaying in time.

I took the only vacant stool at the bar and waited for a moment to get the barkeep's attention. I recall thinking it slightly odd that he was wearing very tight leather trousers. I also recall contemplating that one's equipment would get awfully warm in such garb. I further noted that he was bare-chested under a red vee-necked waistcoat. While I'd been to bars where the waitresses were scantily clad, this was somewhat unusual, I thought. He looked me straight in the eye and asked, "What's your pleasure, handsome?"

That had happened once or twice before, but usually with a female bartender. I gulped, smiled in a way that I hoped didn't resemble too much of a grimace, and said, "Whisky. Double. Neat."

I thought that my high was disappearing faster than I'd like, so I reached into the pocket of my trousers and retrieved a tablet. Since it was so dark, I wasn't sure of its color, but felt fairly certain by the size and shape that it was E. With a hit of that and a double whisky, I'd be relaxed and unconcerned about the bartender speaking to me in endearments. The E hit my bloodstream quickly and the double shot arrived moments later. I downed it in one gulp and asked for another. The barkeep smirked and nodded, handing me a new glass with a very generous pour.

"First time?" he asked, but the smirk was gone.

Reading nothing into the question, I answered in the affirmative. It was, after all, my first visit to this establishment.

"You'll do fine," he drawled, giving me a leering once-over that should have made me more wary, but the high ensured that I didn't give it a second thought. I finished off the second double whisky and sat, eyes closed, listening to the music while my high got even higher. My euphoria was interrupted by fingers trailing across my shoulders. I smiled. That was more like it. A fuck in the making.

I opened my eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness in the midst of my substance-induced elation and noted that the only people near me were men. I remember being amused by that. I extended my gaze further and realized that _everyone_ in the bar was male. How interesting, I pondered. I shrugged mentally, if not physically. It appeared that I had wandered into a gay bar. Now, I've never been specifically attracted to another man. I do have eyes, though, and can recognize that people might find a particular bloke good-looking. I've been envious, once or twice, of another man's better build or taller stature. I happen to like my own cock rather well, so I've never been jealous of another guy's package, nor have I actively compared mine to another's. In the locker room, though, it's sometimes impossible to avoid seeing your teammates' goods. I'd never before considered getting… physical with a member of my own gender. I knew a couple of gay blokes from school who weren't especially concerned about remaining discreet or closeted, and there'd been rumors from time to time about Zabini, but I'd seen him heavily and happily engaged with too many birds to fully buy in to that idea. I suppose he could have been bisexual.

So, anyway, there I was, sitting in a gay bar, higher than a kite, hornier than a goat, and feeling some dude behind me getting familiar with the contours of my back and shoulders. I was _so_ high that I simply didn't give a fuck. I'd tried any number of interesting things with the birds I'd been screwing, so why not go with the flow? One warm, wet, willing hole is as good as another, I reasoned. Did that make me gay? Or bisexual? I wasn't coherent enough to process the question, and was feeling just hard up enough to not care. It'd been two days since I'd dipped my dick into anything other than my fist, so I was aching for it. If this bloke was willing, I was too. To be sure that I didn't lose my nerve, I surreptitiously popped another E and hoped that it wouldn't put me over the edge into unconsciousness. We're talking high upon high upon high. He could've asked to fuck me right there on top of the bar, and I probably wouldn't have argued, although the idea of being the fucker rather than the fucked was far more to my liking.

I turned on the swiveling stool to face him, and before I could even speak, he'd stepped into the space between my legs, stuck his tongue down my throat, and started rubbing my awakening cock through my trousers. I guess the etiquette of a hook-up was slightly different, at least in this particular bar. I responded by tangling my tongue with his and thrusting my hips lightly into his hand. I'd given my implied consent and I was as hard as I'd ever been in seconds. If my head couldn't wrap around the idea of gay or bisexual, apparently my body had no difficulty with the concept. Maybe I was… omnisexual. I instantly coined the term to allow for one who'd fuck absolutely anything in order to get off. Other than children and animals, which were entirely, permanently, unequivocally off limits, I had to acknowledge that I was heading along that path. I'd once heard of a Muggle movie where a bloke actually fucked a pie. Yeah, that could be me, if it was warm and wet. Since willingness didn't apply to inanimate objects, there'd be no troubles.

Before I could really comprehend the entirety of what was happening, I'd thrown twenty quid across the bar to cover my tab and was being tugged out of the bar by this dude. He was easily as hard-up as I was, if the massive bulge that had poked my hip was any indication. It was actually slightly brighter on the street than it had been in the bar and I got a look at the guy who'd been fondling my dick. He was a little taller than me, probably late twenties or early thirties, straight dark hair, brown eyes, and built like a Beater – large and muscular. Altogether, he wasn't a bad-looking bloke. I imagined that if I _were_ gay, I'd have been attracted to him. Women would certainly find him appealing, I thought, but I had the distinct feeling that this one did not play for both teams.

He pulled me close once we were tucked into a slightly more private, darker space in the alley. "You're a right smart-looking bloke, luv. I started eying you the minute you walked in. What are you up for?" he asked.

I looked at him and stammered, "I, uh, I'm not, uh, gay."

He chuckled in response. "That's okay. You want to get your dick wet, dontcha?"

It was less a question than a confirmation. I nodded through the lump in my throat.

"Well, I'd be more than happy to oblige. I think you must be incredibly delicious," he said softly, leaning in and running his tongue along the side of my neck. "Yeah, yummier than a bloke has a right to be. There's something positively electric about you."

I wondered briefly if he felt my magic. Could he have been a wizard or a squib? He placed his hands on my shoulders and pushed me, far more gently than I'd anticipated, against a wall. "You just relax, sweet thing, and old Tommy will take real good care of you," he rasped.

If my gut feelings were correct, I'd have to say that "Tommy" was really into _me, _at least on a physical attraction level. It only took him a moment to drop to his knees, and seconds later, he was unbuckling my belt, unbuttoning my trousers, and unzipping my fly. He was so… practiced at it that I couldn't help but assume that this guy really loved to suck cock. He nuzzled against my boxers, and I heard him inhale deeply. That, I must admit, felt a little odd, but I suppose I'd done the same with birds. By this time, my second hit of E had started to kick into high gear, so to speak, and I'd have let him do anything he wanted, as long as I could come.

I think I was whimpering, because I remember him looking up at me and soothing me with what could only be described as cooing. "I'm gonna do you right, luv, don't you worry."

It was then that he stopped caressing me through my boxers and freed my stiff, aching cock to the night air. I couldn't have told you if we were alone or had an audience of a hundred because I was so intently focused on my cock in another man's hand, and his mouth coming closer with every millisecond. I have no idea whether it was a function of my extreme level of high or if it had something to do with a man really understanding what another man likes, but he gave the best head I'd ever had. Just the right level of suction, just the exact amount of pressure, just the perfect application of tongue, just the best amount of deep-throating, just the optimum tug on my bollocks, just the most mind-blowing push and pull of his hands on my hips. Everything was fucking _perfect _on a sexual technique scale. If I hadn't been so ready to blow my load, I'd have let him suck me off all night. He seemed to know exactly when that moment was imminent, too, because he pulled back just long enough to ask, "Swallow or on my face?"

I was too far gone to speak, but I made my intention clear by angling his mouth back to my dick, placing my hand on the back of his head, and thrusting aggressively into his relaxed throat. I came so hard and so long that I wondered if I'd choked him. I was breathing hard and my heart was beating at twice its normal rate as I slumped more fully against the wall. I understood why he'd set us up there.

Now, I know that I've been selfish at many points in my life, but I always prided myself on being a reasonably considerate sex partner. Everybody should have a good time. I was out of my element in that situation, though. I'd never touched another man, and I'd certainly never given head. What would he want from me? He seemed to understand my hesitation and confusion, although I was a bit surprised to find that he'd taken his cock, hot, heavy, and hard, out of his trousers. He was slowly and purposefully stroking it as he watched me deliberate. He stepped closer then, his body nearly flush against mine.

"I know you're new at this, luv. It's easy to see. You don't have to suck me if you don't want to. We can just play a little," he suggested. He leaned in to kiss me then, and it's not the first time, by a very long shot, that I tasted my own cum, but there's no doubt that it was a vastly different experience while having my tongue sucked by another man. There was nothing romantic about it; it was all aggression and purely sexual. Being rather naïve about male-on-male sexual practices, I really had no idea what he proposed, but I nodded my assent all the same. He smiled, but there wasn't anything creepy about it. Quite the contrary. It was evident that he was truly enjoying our assignation, almost as though he were… mentoring me. Such an odd thought. I would be lying if I said I hadn't thoroughly enjoyed it, too. So with his body pressing against mine, he reached for my hand and wrapped it around both of our cocks – mine was already getting hard again - so that the strokes he guided up and down rubbed our organs together. I quickly understood, even in the midst of my high, that he was demonstrating what he wanted me to do. He began a slow, easy roll of his hips, then, while I jerked us off, eventually wrapping both of my hands around our erections. Gods, I was so fucking high and so fucking aroused that I couldn't see straight on seventeen different levels. It all just felt so fucking good, and I knew that it wouldn't be long before I'd get lost in another head-fuck of an orgasm. I heard his breathing get more rapid about the same time mine did, and we came within seconds of each other, our semen mixing indistinguishably on my hands. He rested his head for the briefest of moments on my shoulder, then took my hands in his, licking them clean before leaning in to kiss me one more time.

Through my orgasmic haze, I thought I heard a gasp and movement, and I lifted my head to see if someone had been watching us. There, in the shadow from a dim streetlamp, I saw a woman. She seemed transfixed by the sight of us, two men, having a sexual encounter on a public street. We weren't directly out in the open, but we weren't exactly fully hidden either. She drunkenly stumbled back, putting her fully into the light, and then I was the one who released a gasp. I may have been higher than a kite, with my dick hanging out, and in the midst of an emerging existential crisis about my sexuality, but I was as sure as I could be in my condition that I knew Hermione Granger when I saw her. There were two thoughts that came to mind in that moment. First, I was more grateful than I could possibly say for Glamour charms, and second, what the fuck was _she_ doing _here_? As "Tommy" and I came down from our immediate post-sex euphoria, I shook my head in denial, convincing myself that it couldn't have been the Gryffindor princess drunker than a skunk in the same Liverpool alley where I'd just had sex – and two orgasms - with another man. Couldn't be. No fucking way. The universe just couldn't possibly be _that_ fucked up. Could it?


	8. Chapter 7

I didn't sleep for what must have been three straight days after my encounter with "Tommy" and my possible Granger sighting. I paced, I drank, I took uppers, and paced some more. I consumed gallons of coffee, brewed in the tiny four-cup machine I'd bought at the grocery market. (Although I followed the directions meticulously, the coffee still sucked.) I couldn't tell you which of the two events had been more unsettling. Maybe it was the confluence of the two that made each feel so heavy. I tried to separate them in my head, turning them over and examining them for what they were. That's not terribly easy to do when on (and over) the verge of drunk and high. I may have been awake, but I never said anything about alert, sober, or even aware. I did at least as much drinking and pill-popping as had become my habit during those sixty-some agonizing hours. (The coffee just made me jittery on top of everything else.) It was very likely, though, that I'd gone about the process all wrong: I've been told that weed is the better drug for rumination and contemplation, but I didn't have any and I stubbornly refused to leave my room during those three days of deliberate introspection. I was a tough jailer and gave myself no reprieve.

I set the Granger thing aside, or tried to, on the fourth day to focus on what had happened just prior to my awareness of her. I had always considered myself a strictly heterosexual male, never once having had any kind of attraction to another bloke. All of my early sexual experiences had been with girls, and I don't recall having gone through any period of sexual curiosity about my own gender, as I know some of my peers had done. When I fantasized – and that was remarkably often – it was always about women. I loved tits and kitties. And long, smooth legs. And a woman's scent of arousal. I was a world-class wanker, in the literal sense, and every time I tugged on my cock, it was a woman's form or voice or remembered scent that fueled my stimulation and took me over the edge.

Did one same-sex encounter negate a lifetime of both fantasy and actions? I didn't think so, but I had undeniably enjoyed it. Could I blame it on the drugs and circumstance? I hadn't deliberately gone to a gay bar; it was purely accidental that I'd been in that place at that time. As Tommy had noted, I had desperately wanted to "get my dick wet." He wasn't wrong about that, and he was willing, even eager, to help me achieve that end. Was _I_ willing to allow that to happen in any way it could? Was I that much of a sex junkie – an orgasm junkie – to seek my pleasure from literally anyone who was willing to provide it? Just how far was I willing to go? If he'd pushed the issue, would I have fucked him? Would I have allowed him to fuck me? I thought that if I'd been high enough, the answer was probably "yes." I had, though, been just about as high as I'd ever been; pushing it any further would certainly take me to the land of overdose, and I'd already had one episode that had come far too close. I'd only had anal sex with one of the women I'd hooked up with – it was her "very special" kink, she'd told me, and she'd walked me through every step of the way - so while it wasn't something that was part of my usual repertoire, I was fairly adventurous in bed (so fucking easy to be when you're so spectacularly high) and I fundamentally understood the mechanics and dynamics. It was… interesting, but not something I thought most birds would be aching to do.

Are consent and participation under the influence of drugs and alcohol the same as consciously seeking out a particular type of sex partner, or was it just my unceasing quest for every orgasm I could find? At the time, I didn't have a concrete answer, nor did I understand what it would take for me to find one. The miniscule part of me that was still trying to find my way out of the darkness – with absolutely no success – feared the lengths I might go to in trying to find some clarity, a commodity that was in remarkably short supply since long before I'd escaped from the wizarding world. My desperation was just that deep. While I had no conscious intention to seek out experiences that would either confirm or refute any assumptions that I'd made about my sexual proclivities, I was confident that if I continued my substance consumption, those experiences would find me. And because all I cared about was being numb at least and blitzed at best, there was no way in hell that I planned to stop drinking or what I thought of as "recreational" drug use.

If I'd had a fully functioning brain in those days, I suppose I'd have begun to ask myself why my only behavioral choice was self-destruction. Did I hate my life – myself - so much that I was seeking escape, or was I looking for coward's way out? Suicide by passive neglect and active stupidity. I didn't have that level of self-awareness or self-discipline at that point, though, so the freeway I'd taken had no obvious off-ramp.

It might surprise one to learn that I thought that mornings were the worst. I typically woke around ten with some type of drug and or alcohol-induced malady. Thank the gods, I'd managed to stay focused enough at some point to brew a reasonably effective batch (or ten) of Sober-up and hangover remedies. I was going through them like most people would consume tea or coffee. I'd even had to get creative in finding a couple of substitute ingredients when my wizarding supplies began to run out. It's not like there was a Ministry-approved apothecary on the next block. Of course, that made the potions slightly less shelf-stable and marginally less effective, meaning I had to consume more of them and brew them more often. I'd set up a vicious cycle from which I saw no escape. There was no way on the Goddess' Earth that I was ready to make a trip to any wizarding community, so as long as my Muggle cash held out, or something drastic forced it, I refused to consider a trip to any location where the name 'Malfoy' might be known, regardless of the fact that I wasn't wearing my own face.

My reluctance had as much to do with fear of what I'd learn as fear of being recognized. Did I want to learn that I was now the last living Malfoy? The likelihood was not remote. Which of my friends or classmates had died and which were now behind the cruel bars of Azkaban? Was the wizarding world now fully under the control of a madman? Was my delusional aunt still casting Cruciatus curses at Half-bloods for fun? Did I still owe life debts to Potter and Granger? That question gave me pause, considering how sure I was that I'd seen her just a few nights earlier, regardless of how often I tried to convince myself otherwise. Did her presence in Liverpool – in such deplorable condition - mean that the worst had happened and she'd been banished from a pureblood-controlled society? The evidence was compelling if not conclusive. Were any Muggle-borns left alive, or had they… failed to escape? I was torturing myself with not knowing, but I had convinced myself that what I'd learn would cause still greater pain. The mornings were worst because it meant that I'd have to go through another day of wondering, followed by an afternoon, evening, and night of doing my level best to forget what I was supposed to be worrying - or grieving - over.

On the rare nights when I retained a small portion of my wits before succumbing to something that resembled sleep, I was still haunted by terrors that had me awakening to my own screams. I'd taken to casting Silencing charms around the room so as to not disturb my neighbors. (I'd learned that if I got too loud, they'd bang on the walls. The spells made that unnecessary and kept the peace.) I was rarely able to get back to sleep on those nights, resorting to my usual cocktail of drugs and alcohol to induce a haze, if not unconsciousness. On those days, I rarely rose before noon, when I'd start the pattern all over again.

The one useful thing I did during those few days was to experiment with my wand a bit. I started by shrinking its size slightly, then testing to see if it still performed as expected. With every successful alteration, I reduced the size by another inch, finally getting the overall length down to about five inches, roughly the size of a Muggle pen. I also tried (again) to see if I could multiply or duplicate anything from my food supply, but still had zero success on that front. At the very least, I knew that I could now carry the wand on me without worrying about it drawing undue attention.

Somewhere around day six or seven after what my brain had tagged "the Events", I belatedly became obsessed with trying to find Granger. I was so proud of myself for having managed to not think of it – her – for two whole days when she visited me in my dreams once again, pulling me out of the Fiendfyre, this time by my hair. (I chose not to interpret that as meaningful in any way.) I told myself that my purpose was to confirm that it _wasn't_ her. The implications of her presence were more than I could handle, so I had to ease my concerns with at least the illusion that _she'd_ been a delusion. I was so desperate that I even cut back – slightly – on the pills and hooch for a few days, intent on keeping a marginally clearer head. I'd even taken the time to craft a search grid of sorts. What good it would do in a city the size of Liverpool was questionable, at best. I was coherent enough to know that, even if I covered every square inch of the dock districts alone, she could always be one street or alley ahead of or behind me for weeks or months on end.

That didn't mean that I wouldn't try, though, and I made a fairly diligent attempt at it for several days. Although it probably would have been the reasonable thing to do since that's where I'd last seen her, I avoided more than a cursory glance down the alley where I'd stumbled upon the gay bar. I had any number of false sightings; I was surprised at the number of slim women with curly chestnut hair I encountered. None of them were Granger, of course, and I began to tell myself that the woman I'd seen was just another of these doppelgangers. I couldn't decide whether I was relieved or dismayed by that. (Never once, though, did I consider what I'd do if I actually found her. I wasn't _me_, Draco Malfoy, and she had no reason to know who I was. That knowledge would probably not have helped the situation, at least at that juncture.) It was on the evening of the fourth day of searching that other temptations and pursuits began to draw my attention away from what had seemed like a sacred mission just hours before.

The highs began calling to me. I'd even been rather lazy in my self-pleasuring, only getting off once or twice a day, and I'd not had sex with, uh, anyone in over a week, closing in on two. (That my last partner had been a male was something that I forcefully pushed out of my psyche as I made the decision to go out for the night with the intention of getting laid.) If I'd had half a brain, I would have recognized that my focus on a purpose had actually been good for me. That it was so easy to talk myself out of (relatively) sober behavior should have been a warning.

It should also have been troubling how incredibly easy it was to fall back into the heavy drinking and pills, but the pull was stronger than I could resist. I can't tell you the whole story because I simply don't remember a very large and material chunk of it, strong evidence that I'd managed to get that high on my own, or that I'd been drugged with what I've learned is called a "date-rape" substance. Either scenario is plausible, but in this case, I lean toward the latter as being significantly more likely, as I do only have clear recollection of having had one drink after leaving my room that night. That, again, should have scared the crap out of me, but it's apparent that I wasn't yet ready to face the world as a sober adult.

The night started as dozens of others had. I had a couple of drinks – Scotch, neat – before heading out to find another new bar or club. (I hadn't come close yet to exhausting Liverpool's supply of drinking establishments.) I had some E and some blow in my pocket, ready to ingest either (or both) as the evening progressed. With as much optimism and confidence as I could muster, I stuffed a handful of condoms in my other pocket.

I walked about fifteen blocks eastward, away from the docks, and settled on a smallish place with stucco walls and heavy wooden crossbeams decorating the façade. The windows were covered by what appeared to be brown velvet curtains. There was definitely a dark vibe about the establishment, though, and that suited my mood. I'd found that pubs with darker lighting were more conducive to quicker hook-ups. Maybe it was in my imagination, but it was an assumption that hadn't yet failed me. When I pushed the door open, my assessment from the outside proved correct. Dark wood paneling, heavy wrought iron fixtures, and thick walnut tables and chairs were all barely discernable in the dimly lit club. It wasn't quite as dark as the gay bar I'd inadvertently patronized, but that had been something quite out of the norm.

Having eaten a ham and cheddar sandwich earlier in the evening, I saw no point to finding a table as I planned to do nothing more than drink and chat up ladies who I deemed potentially fuckable. There were a couple of seats open at the rustic bar and I picked the one furthest from the door, all the better to accommodate my desire for darkness.

After ordering my Scotch (my usual double, neat) from the bartender, I took a moment to absorb my surroundings and weigh my prospects for getting laid in the next couple of hours. Tucked in among the small tables was a postage-stamp-sized dance floor. If it was even eight feet square, I'd be stunned. The fact that the music playing over a sound system was a driving techno-beat with a heavy bass line that nearly forced one to physically keep time was the only reason that a half-dozen couples had squeezed themselves into the tiny space. This was the kind of music that forced a person's heartbeat to synchronize, lest it skip a beat. In any case, what the couples were doing could hardly be called dancing. I'd had dancing lessons as a youngster, and nothing here came close. No, this was simply vertical dry-humping. I needed to get in on that action. To that end, I looked around as my eyes adjusted to the dimness, finding a handful of females who appeared to be unattached. Most of them seemed to be a couple of years older than me, although at just barely over eighteen, I was probably one of the youngest people in the building. I still thought my life experience in having survived the Dark Lord and a war matured me far beyond my years. In retrospect, I guess one's definition of maturity is relative.

As my first drink was placed on the bar before me, and I handed the bartender my payment and a generous tip, I debated for a moment whether to pop some molly. The night was still young, though, and I managed enough self-restraint to hold off. I liked my highs, obviously, but fucking under the influence of mood-enhancing drugs was totally mind-blowing. Until I found a partner for the night, I'd refrain, with the intent of making the main event that much more intense. Before I could finish my Scotch, for once not slamming it like a shot, a woman approached the bar, squeezing into the space between me and the occupied stool to my left. It seemed she was a regular, as the bartender slid a draft of stout across the wooden surface with the comment, "Here you go, Sal." If they hadn't been so close to me, I'd have never heard the exchange over the music, the volume of which seemed to have increased exponentially in the last several moments.

"On my tab, Greg?" she replied with a smile.

"Just like the last three," he answered, smirking, then turning away to tend to other patrons.

Since she hadn't paid me any mind, I figured she would be off to find whatever friend or date she'd momentarily left behind. Instead, she turned, leaning her left side against the bar and lifting her glass to me in salute. "You're cute, blondie," she complimented. "Wanna party?"

It was odd to be called "blondie" and for a moment, I wondered if I'd forgotten to apply my Glamours. The quickest glance to the mirror behind the bar confirmed that I was wearing the visage of Drew Blackman. I guess my hair was still fairly light-colored.

If she was game, so was I. I loved forward birds; they were so much fun in the sack. "Depends on what you have in mind, luv, but I'm pretty flexible," I retorted, deliberately inserting the phrase that could have been interpreted any number of ways.

She raked me over with her eyes. "I'll just bet you are." She chuckled suggestively. "You'll have to be _very_ flexible for what I have in mind."

I arched a brow in question.

She pressed against me to whisper in my ear. "You, me, and at least another friend. Maybe two. You up for it?"

I'm certain she looked directly at my crotch. I swallowed. That was a little bit more than I had bargained for. One partner at a time was enough for me, even when I was sky-high, I reasoned. My hesitation seemed to annoy her, but the flash of irritation in her eyes dissipated quickly. She put her arms around my neck and drew closer, flicking my earlobe with her tongue.

"Are you sure I can't persuade you?"

I cleared my throat nervously. I wasn't yet drunk enough to consent to something so far outside my usual repertoire. Then again, if she'd approached me after another drink or two…

Now, I know – at least I'm nearly certain - that I didn't say any of that aloud, but the next thing I knew, she was pushing my glass into my hand (which had of its own volition found its way to her hip) and encouraging me to drink up.

That's the last thing I remembered.

I woke up, probably hours later, though there was no way to immediately know for sure how much time had passed, in a condition and situation that was pretty shocking, even to me. I did conclude that it wasn't yet morning because I could see through a window that it was still dark. I was face-down, naked, on a mattress. Not a bed, a mattress. (It did have a sheet, at least, or so it seemed.) A large one. On the floor. And I wasn't alone. My head was foggy and pounding, and I struggled to comprehend and decipher what had happened. The woman who'd approached me was on my right. At least, I'm fairly sure it was the same person. She, too, was naked. As was the dark-haired bloke on the other side of her. I lifted my head and turned to my left, quietly so as to not rouse anyone, and saw another naked woman. The room was dark, but not so dark that I couldn't see the half-dozen used condoms on and around the bedding. I got up as quickly and quietly as I could, used the dim light from the window to find my clothes (which I donned with astonishing speed), ensuring that my pen-sized wand was still in my trouser pocket, and got the hell out of there. In my haze, it took me a good twenty minutes to figure out where the hell I was, and another half-hour to find my way back to my rooming house. The light was just beginning to crack the horizon as I fell onto my own bed.

To this day, I don't know exactly what happened that night, but I have any number of educated guesses. First, I'd bet on roofies in the drink the woman was so eager for me to finish. One of her pals probably spiked it while I was distracted by her. That was a switch; it was usually birds who had to watch out for that kind of thing. If she'd allowed me to get to my usual state of drunkenness, that probably wouldn't have even been necessary. I'd learned by that time that my sexual adventurousness knew few bounds. If I was drugged with that shit, however, I couldn't have been an active participant in whatever sex games the bird and her friends cooked up. That meant that I was completely passive, which probably explained the tenderness I felt in areas that typically weren't subject to, uh, intrusion. I _probably_ wouldn't have chosen to allow that. If the sticky state of my cock gave any indication, they probably fed me one of those little blue pills to avail themselves of my todger. I threw up four times that early morning, although I wasn't exactly sure why.

Considering the fact that I had very little idea exactly what I'd done and what had be done to me, I took enough Sober-up potion to ensure that I was clear-headed so that I could decide what I needed to keep myself disease-free. My first step was a Sanitizing charm. Okay, so maybe it was a dozen. On my mouth alone. I made sure not to miss any spot that could have been subject to unintended incursion of foreign substances. Any wizard worth his salt keeps a broad-spectrum antibiotic potion in his kit, so I, thankfully, had that available for immediate ingestion. I also spent a good hour in a very hot shower, then slept most of the day away. I didn't go out that night, or the one after.

It took me some months to realize the broader implications of what had happened that night, and what had caused me to want to upchuck everything I'd ever eaten. Sure, some of it had been the hangover from the drugs and alcohol, but that was only a small part of it. I had attempted to excuse and suppress the idea that I'd been raped with my own reckless behavior. That was sickening on more levels than I cared to consider. My world view had always contained the conviction that men didn't get raped. And the truth is, even if I might have "consented" after a few more drinks - an intrinsically dubious idea, I finally realized - that opportunity was taken away from me. My free will was ignored and I was used in a way that was out of my control. It forced me to confront my own cajoling, if not coercing, of women when one or both of us was under the influence. For a short while, at least, it was a sobering thought.


End file.
